


better to last than to burn

by dearestwinter



Category: Cursed (TV 2020)
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/F, Fluff, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Not Beta Read, One Big Happy Family, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Past Abuse, Redemption, Religious Conflict, Self-Esteem Issues, Sharing a Bed, Slow Burn, Sort Of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-02
Updated: 2020-10-11
Packaged: 2021-03-05 20:13:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 39,676
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25671112
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dearestwinter/pseuds/dearestwinter
Summary: The Weeping Monk, demon-born, damned in the eyes of God and men. He is going to deliver Squirrel to his people, safe and sound.And then, well, he’ll see.
Relationships: Arthur/Red Spear | Guinevere (Cursed), Gawain | The Green Knight/The Weeping Monk | Lancelot (Cursed), Pym (Cursed)/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 183
Kudos: 481





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Yay, it's here!! My first fic for these soft boys, enjoy!
> 
> Disclaimer: I don't own anything. This is all written just for the feels!
> 
> Here's my [tumblr](http://maegelletargaryen.tumblr.com)
> 
> Even though this fic is finished, I would still like to know what you guys think about it so don't hesitate to leave comments! 😊

"Someone tells me: this kind of love is not viable. But how can you evaluate viability? Why is the viable a good thing? Why is it better to last than to burn?" – Roland Barthes, _A Lover's Discourse_.

* * *

He wouldn’t have imagined seeing fire again would make him so happy.

In the distance, through the trees, the Fey camp is alive with people coming and going, getting ready for dinner. The monk urges the horse forward, his body sagging in relief at the sight before him. He shakes the boy’s shoulder gently; he’s tired, Lancelot can see it in the way Squirrel barely opens his eyes, but when the monk tells him they made it, the boy smiles and suddenly the weariness Lancelot feels seeping into his bones from days of travelling nonstop is worth it.

He has kept this child safe. The Weeping Monk, demon-born, damned in the eyes of God and men. He is going to deliver Squirrel to his people, safe and sound.

And then, well, he’ll see.

He tightens the arm around Squirrel’s waist, tugging on the reins to make the great horse stop at the entrance of the camp. Lancelot’s sight is blurry, and his limbs are trembling with exhaustion as he gets off the horse and helps Squirrel do the same. Pain is an old friend from countless of battles, yet Lancelot feels it blaring white hot through his veins. He has to grit his teeth while he deposits the child on the ground, his back burning from the lashes he had given to himself not too many days ago.

Lancelot sees him. He blinks, rubbing his eyes to make sure they’re not playing tricks on him. But they aren’t.

The Green Knight is approaching them, sword drawn, looking between Lancelot and Squirrel with a frown on his face that oddly lacks the bruises Lancelot had seen on it at Brother Salt’s kitchen. The boy shouts his name and runs to the knight, who in a second has an armful of him. The knight holds his sword arm up to avoid cutting Squirrel with the sharp blade, and ruffles his hair with his free hand.

“Get behind me, Squirrel,” the man says, staring at Lancelot leaning his weight on his horse to keep himself upright. 

The boy has none of it. “Don't worry about Lancelot, he’s our friend now.”

Lancelot winces at hearing that word coming out so freely out of Squirrel’s mouth. A _friend_. He, a friend of a Fey boy. God must surely be laughing at this situation, Lancelot thinks before he remembers that he has forsaken God to save Squirrel. He has gone against everything he has ever known to make sure a Fey child lives and is reunited with his people again. The people who were once Lancelot’s too, a long time ago, before the Red Paladins had burned his village to the ground and Father Carden spared the small child with big blue eyes and dark tears running down his cheeks because he could be useful in their Holy War.

But Father is gone now, and with him all that gave Lancelot’s life meaning. He feels like a leaf in the wind, flying in no direction. He will need to get used to that feeling, if he is going to be alone from now on.

The Green Knight come closer, but the tip of his sword points down to the ground. “Is it true? Have you left the Paladins for good, brother?”

Lancelot nods because he’s not sure words can come out past the knot in his throat. Squirrel squeals and runs to Lancelot, throwing his skinny arms around the monk’s waist. He smiles, and presses the boy tightly to himself for a few moments before he lets go. Trying not to grunt in pain, Lancelot gets on one knee and grabs Squirrel’s face in his hands.

“Now go with your people, brave Percival. May we meet again. Born in the dawn…”

“To pass in the twilight,” Squirrel finishes, frowning. “But you can’t go, Lancelot! You need stay here, you’re one of us!”

“I am,” Lancelot admits, “but I don’t think that’s wise, little one. I have caused the Fey much sorrow with my actions, and there is nothing I could ever do to take them back. I--” He pauses when his sight goes black for several seconds. He closes his eyes on instinct, and opens them to find himself laying on the cold ground, two very concerned faces staring down at him.

“Lancelot!”

“Give him some space to breathe, boy,” the knight admonishes when Squirrel all but throws himself on top of Lancelot when he sees the monk open his eyes again, warm breath tickling the monk’s neck. The boy does as the knight says, reluctantly.

The Green Knight offers Lancelot a hand to help him get back on his feet, but the latter brushes it off, not rudely. 

“I’m fine,” Lancelot says, trying to reassure them, but feeling so far away from fine that they probably need to invent another word for that.

The knight raises an eyebrow. “The beast needs proper rest.”

“I said I’m fine--”

“I meant the _horse_.”

Lancelot feels his face on fire, but he blames it on being bludgeoned quite recently. Squirrel, for his part, is tugging on Lancelot’s hand, beckoning him to start walking toward the camp. “Come on, I’m hungry!”, the boy shouts, and the monk exchanges an amused look with the knight. He has no choice but to follow them.

“Gawain,” the knight introduces himself.

“Lancelot, but you already know that.”

Gawain nods and squeezes his shoulder amicably, but he doesn’t miss Lancelot’s flinch, and the look of pain etched in his bruised face. He had forgone pulling up his grey hood, thinking there is no point in trying to look like The Weeping Monk anymore when they know his true name. 

“You’re hurt,” Gawain says, not as a question but as a fact.

“I’m fine.”

“You know, I’ll start charging you for saying that.” It is meant to sound like a joke, he knows, but Gawain’s face says the opposite. The concern is still there in his dark eyes, and Lancelot feels uncomfortable under their gaze. “Come on, I’ll take you to the healer’s tent.”

Lancelot is left no room to protest. Before they go, Gawain convinces Squirrel to go with a Tusk woman to get himself a bowl of porridge from the tent that works as their kitchen. The boy looks at Lancelot for approval, and when he nods, he gets one last hug from Squirrel and a promise to check up on the monk later before he follows the woman in the direction of the kitchen.

The healer’s tent is well-lit with torches and candles. They find her, a girl with flaming red hair and plump lips, crushing herbs with a mortar. 

“Pym,” Gawain greets her. She smiles at the knight, but her face falls when she sees Lancelot behind a few feet behind Gawain.

“He is--”

“Lancelot. I promise I’ll explain it to you later, but he needs a healer right now.”

Lancelot shakes his head in disagreement, but Gawain fixes him with a glare and the words die in the monk’s mouth. Pym nods, and motions for Lancelot to lay on one of the tent’s beds. He notices not for the first time how exhausted he truly is when his body makes contact with the soft but worn mattress.

“He passed out for a few seconds a while ago, went pale like a ghost,” Gawain says. Lancelot sighs, annoyed and thinking the knight is completely exaggerating.

“I’m just tired, that’s all.”

Pym inspects the monk’s face, seeing the cuts and bruises above his left brow and trailing down his cheek. She leaves them briefly, coming back with a wooden bowl full of fresh water and a white rag. She sets to clean the cut thoroughly, and then Lancelot’s face, the rag turning pink from the dried blood clinging to his skin.

“I need to stitch that,” Pym warns them. Then she turns to Lancelot, “do you want some leather to bite on?”

“No,” he replies. Luckily, she leaves it at that, but Gawain raises an eyebrow, silently asking if he’s sure. Lancelot ignores him.

Pym’s hands are warm as she sets to work, stitching the gash on the monk’s forehead. He is surprised to find that, on top of being deft with them, she is kind too. She tries her best not to make him hurt even more than he is, and is polite when she asks Lancelot to turn his head this or that way to make it easier for the needle to go into his skin.

Lancelot swallows thickly. When was the last time someone has touched him with even a bit of gentleness? Has there ever been a time? He realizes he doesn’t remember, and the thought leaves him with a dull ache deep in his chest.

“I’m done. You can take off your cloak and shirt now,” Pym says.

“No.”

Gawain rolls his eyes. “I saw you favoring your right side while you walked, so don’t tell us you’re fine.”

“It’s nothing I can’t deal with on my own,” Lancelot says.

“The wounds may be infected,” Pym tells him. “I need to make sure they aren’t, seeing that Gawain said you passed out.”

The monk says nothing. He stares down, refusing to meet their eyes. Gawain sits beside him on the bed, placing a shy hand on his forearm. Cautious, Lancelot corrects himself, as if he were a wounded animal. He is wounded, but he is not an animal. An animal acts on instinct, and Lancelot has always been very aware of what he was doing. A monster has a better ring to it.

“ _Lancelot_.” He looks sideways to Gawain when he hears his name coming out of the man’s mouth. It is not said harshly, or with disgust as he would have thought not too long ago, when he was still The Weeping Monk. Now there is understanding in Gawain’s voice, and something akin to hope that Lancelot can’t for the life of him know what it truly means. “You are Fey, you hear me? You are _Fey_ , and like any of us, you are worthy of being helped.”

Lancelot does not want to do this. Not with someone like Gawain, a knight who has risked even his very life for the survival of his people, who has endured torture at the hands of Brother Salt for them. Someone so inherently good cannot bring himself down to the level of people like Lancelot, damned to burn in a hell he's not sure he believes in anymore.

“I am not,” he replies, his voice the smallest he’s ever heard it. Not even when Father called him a demon-born and told Lancelot to beg for God’s forgiveness for the sin of his very existence did he ever feel such shame coursing through his body.

Pym tells Gawain she will leave them alone to talk for a moment. Lancelot is surprised to realize there is no anger or pity in her voice, although he's not sure which one would be best. 

Lancelot flinches again when Gawain takes his calloused hand in his, its grip not tight but firm, the man not wanting for Lancelot to pull away just yet. 

“I know it will take a lot of time for you to accept it,” Gawain starts. “Even more to admit it. I assure you, Lancelot, it won’t be easy. There are things you will never be able to undo, and sometimes they will weigh you down. But you won’t be alone. Squirrel already considers you his best friend.”

“The boy is too trusting for his own good,” Lancelot replies with a small smile.

Gawain nods, mirroring his smile. “Indeed. But you did right by him. You promised to see him home safely, and you did. So I think his trusting ways paid off in the end.”

Lancelot is quiet for a few minutes. Eventually he says, “I couldn’t let them hurt him. The Paladins don’t care if someone is a child: if you’re Fey, the devil lives in you and you must be exterminated.”

“Why did they let you live?”, Gawain asks.

“I was useful to them. I could track other Feys.”

Another sign of the knight’s goodness, Lancelot thinks, is that there is no anger or disgust in his eyes. “That is all in the past now.”

“How can you say that? I just told you--”

“And I said that’s in the past.” Gawain realizes he raised his voice when Lancelot cringes. The knight sighs, “eye for an eye won’t win this war for us, Lancelot.”

He nods, somehow feeling calmer by the man's words. They stay like that for a while, in comfortable silence, each of them lost in their thoughts. Finally, Gawain takes the first step, entwining his fingers with Lancelot’s once again. The urge to pull away is still there, but he doesn’t give into it. Instead, just to show he can do it, that he can let himself be weak for once in his life, Lancelot tightens his grip slightly.

Gawain smiles. “Are you ready for Pym to resume her work?” At Lancelot’s nod, the man calls her back into the tent. The monk takes off his cloak and shirt slowly, grunting at the pain he feels when he raises his arms to pull it out. There is a plethora of bruises, and cuts of all shapes and depths. Pym’s eyes widen at seeing them, some infected, some still oozing a bit of blood.

“Okay Pym, you can do this, no problem at all,” the girl tells herself as she readies the balms and herbs she needs to fix the monk in front of her.

Lancelot tries not to make a sound as she cleans, stitches, and bandages the wounds, thinking it might give her some confidence to know she’s not hurting him. Still, he cannot help the pained grunts sometimes, but Gawain’s presence is all the support he needs to make it through.

The better part of an hour passes by before Pym is done. By then, Lancelot can barely keep his eyes open, exhaustion bringing him down with the promise of a good night's rest after so many days on the road. Gawain takes note of this because he tells the monk to lay back down on the bed and sleep, that there will be breakfast ready for him first thing in the morning. Pym retires to sleep too in another tent, not before bidding them both a good night.

Lancelot gets himself under the blanket, but before Gawain takes his leave, he calls his name. “Thank you.”

Gawain nods in response. “You’re welcome. Have a good night.”

It is some time later when the voice of a small boy brings Lancelot back to the land of the living. 

“I’m glad you’re here with us now,” Squirrel says, patting the monk’s shoulder gently as not to wake him even though his voice is loud to wake an entire army. “I hope you’re having sweet dreams, Lancelot.”

The boy goes, quiet on his feet. It is when he’s out of the tent that Lancelot smiles at Squirrel’s words, and for the first time in many years of sorrow and death and fire, Lancelot allows himself to think there is a light coming in through the cracks. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wow, i didn't expect all the comments i got on the first chapter!!! you guys are the best, keep em coming!
> 
> i also didn't expect this one to be so long. i'll be alternating povs in this fic, so here comes gawain's pov!!!!!

It is quite late in the morning when the guards let Gawain know they have more visitors.

He’s in charge of the Fey camp until Nimue’s return. He has grown accustomed to the responsibilities that come with having hundreds of people to protect from the Red Paladins. Still, Gawain could do with having no more visitors. He thinks of Lancelot, who probably is still asleep in the healer’s tent. The knight hasn’t still figured out what exactly he will tell the Fey when they see The Weeping Monk walking around camp.

Because he will. Gawain and Pym had talked about it last night. It had been a brief conversation since they both needed to get some rest, but they had agreed that Lancelot is one of them now, no matter what. Putting chains on a Fey brother wouldn’t make them any better than the Paladins, Gawain knows. He’s not sure how exactly he will make Nimue see this, however, but he’s willing to try to make her see sense. They can’t lose any more Feys that they already have.

Gawain breathes a little easier when he sees that the visitors are Merlin and Morgana, but his relief is short-lived. Their faces are grim, and the knight suddenly realizes something bad has happened when he looks around and doesn’t see Nimue anywhere.

“We need to talk in private, Gawain,” Merlin tells him, his voice oddly monotone. His blue eyes are dull with sorrow.

Merlin and Morgana follow the knight to his own tent where they can talk, away from prying ears.

“Nimue is gone,” the wizard announces before Gawain can say a word.

“What do you mean she’s  _ gone _ ?”, he asks, dread running cold down his spine. It can’t be.

Morgana touches his arm. “We don’t think she’s dead, but--”, she pauses, taking a deep breath to gather her thoughts. “When I killed the Widow, I became her. I can see things, some of them don’t have a meaning yet, but I saw Nimue.”

“Where?”

Merlin takes out a map out of his leather bag and smooths it out on the table. Then he points to a waterfall surrounded by little grey triangles. “We were here when Nimue fell from the stone bridge and into the lake below.”

The wizard hunches in on himself after he says that, and Gawain puts a hand on his shoulder, trying to comfort him. “I couldn’t save her.”

“It’s not your fault. I promise we will find her, whatever it takes.”

“How will we do that, Gawain?”, Morgana asks. “Nimue might still be alive, but I can only do so much. I wouldn’t know where to begin looking for her.”

The idea hits Gawain out of nowhere, before he realizes it is a dangerous one, and one that wouldn’t sit too well with the two people in front of him. But Nimue is the priority right now, and anything that can help them get to her fast before the Red Paladins find her and kill her, it’s more than good enough for the Green Knight.

“We have someone who could help us,” he says tentatively, measuring Merlin and Morgana’s reactions. They’re equally confused, he sees. Still, Gawain refuses to look away when he says, “The Weeping Monk.”

Morgana lets out a gasp, and Merlin crosses his arms at hearing those three words.

“He’s killed thousands of Feys!”, she exclaims at the same time Merlin asks, “he’s here?”

“You two cannot be seriously thinking about this,” Morgana says.

“He is,” Gawain confirms Merlin's question. “His real name is Lancelot, and he’s  _ Fey.  _ He has the marks of the Ash Folk to prove it.”

Merlin nods, pensive. “There was a King Lancelot of the Ash Folk many centuries ago. I knew him, a great warrior… and a greater drunkard.”

“Takes one to know one, I suppose,” Gawain jokes, glad that he can do something to lift even for a little while the veil of gloom about Nimue’s unknown whereabouts that surrounds them.

“Indeed,” Merlin replies, a small smile on his lips. After a few moments, he turns serious again. “How can he help finding Nimue?”

Gawain sighs, knowing this won’t be easy to say. “Father Carden used him to track Feys down.”

“He has been successful in that,” Morgana bitterly admits.

They stay quiet, each submerged in their own thoughts, before Merlin speaks up. “I just wish to find my daughter.”

Gawain doesn’t have anything to say to that. He only nods, and goes out of the tent to let Lancelot know they have work to do.

* * *

He stops by the kitchen tent first. The Tusk woman from last night doesn’t ask any questions when Gawain requests for a large breakfast. He hadn’t forgotten about his promise to Lancelot from last night. She loads the porridge, eggs, bread and mead on a tray and hands it to Gawain.

“Thank you…?”

“Amaira,” she replies.

It hasn’t been long since Gawain had been brought back to life by the Hidden, and much less since he came back to the Fey camp, so naturally he’s not very acquainted with the people around here yet. He thanks Amaira again, and goes out.

When he reaches the healer’s tent, Gawain finds himself smiling at hearing a little boy’s chatter inside. Lancelot is already awake, sitting on the bed with Pym fussing over his wounds. They’re looking much better, the knight realizes. It’s no surprise, though; the Fey medicinal herbs and balms do wonders to their people. Lancelot is one of them once again, and his body knows it. Gawain can only hope the man’s mind does too.

“Good morning,” he says. When they all greet him back, he walks over to Lancelot, who has finished putting his shirt back on. Gawain deposits the tray on his lap. “I don’t know what you like, so I took the liberty of choosing from our stores.”

The look in Lancelot’s eyes is conflicted as he examines the meal. “It’s not necessary.”

“Nonsense, you didn’t eat dinner last night.”

Gawain exchanges a look with Pym that says ‘support me in this’, but it’s Squirrel who speaks, “If you don’t eat it, I will. And believe me, you absolutely  _ shouldn’t  _ take this threat lightly.”

“As you wish, little guy,” Lancelot replies, smirking. Still, when he reaches for a piece of bread, his hand shakes with hesitation. Gawain doesn’t miss the way the former monk looks up at him and Pym, as if asking for permission. He nods once, and Lancelot begins eating. He’s ravenous, the knight can tell; he tries to pace himself, but after only a few minutes almost everything on the tray is gone.

“Squirrel, why don’t you come help me out with something?”, Pym asks.

The boy whines. “Do I have to?”

“Do as she says, Percival,” Lancelot commands in a chilling voice, although his blue eyes glint amusedly at the boy’s antics.

Squirrel, in a demonstration of absolute maturity, sticks out his tongue at Lancelot but follows Pym out of the tent anyway. Gawain, who realizes that she had done so to leave him and Lancelot alone so they can talk, mouths a silent ‘thank you’ and she smiles.

When Gawain is sure they’re out of earshot, he turns to watch Lancelot, who’s staring down at the floor with a smile on his face. Gawain thinks it looks good on him, smiling. Granted, the knight is sure Lancelot hasn’t had reasons to smile what with running for his life after he betrayed the Red Paladins, and having to keep Squirrel safe on top of being badly injured. Gawain adds ‘making Lancelot smile’ to his imaginary list of things to look forward to.

“I haven’t properly thanked you last night for bringing Squirrel back home in one piece,” Gawain says.

Lancelot frowns. “You don’t have to thank me.”

“Believe me, I do,” he affirms. “But now I need to ask you to do something similar once again.”

Those words have the man in front of Gawain tilting his head in confusion.

“Our Queen is missing.”

“Nimue,” Lancelot says, and Gawain nods. “What do you need me to do?”

“Just like that?”, the knight asks. He was expecting Lancelot to doubt of Gawain’s intentions, perhaps suspecting there’s a catch or a condition he would impose to test the monk’s loyalty.

Lancelot looks confused at his question, and Gawain swallows guiltily. “Of course. I want to be of help for the Fey cause.”

“Alright,” Gawain says.

He leaves the tent briefly to give Lancelot some privacy to put on his remaining clothes. There is no way they can’t walk through camp to Gawain’s tent without people noticing the Weeping Monk, but he promises that he will defend Lancelot if anyone thinks of taking justice into their own hands.

“Ready?”, he asks Lancelot. The man gives Gawain something that’s between a nod and a shrug, and steps outside.

The Fey move out of the way for them, fear and suspicion etched in their faces. Gawain spares a glance to his side, and finds Lancelot staring ahead, seemingly without caring about the murder looks the warriors of the Fey are throwing his way. Gawain knows it’s a facade, although he doesn’t know  _ how  _ exactly he knows that. Lancelot hasn’t pulled up his hood, but arranged his bun in a way to cover up the bald spot that shows the burned cross in his scalp. Still, the dark tears of the Ash Folk is not something he could ever cover that easily.

Gawain had left Merlin and Morgana in his own tent to go over the details of the rescue mission. When the two men enter, the wizard has the Sword of Power in hand, murmuring an enchantment while Morgana scans the map on the table.

She looks up when she hears their footsteps, but if Gawain had expected that she would look at Lancelot hatefully because of her previous words, he’s sorely mistaken. He knows Morgana, how practical she can be when she has to do something that is unpleasant to her, not showing any emotion in her face. Gawain hopes that Lancelot’s future actions can make Morgana change her mind, and see that he’s not their enemy anymore.

When Merlin is done, he opens his eyes and nods once at them in acknowledgement.

“Shall we begin?”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: explicit description of self-harm. stay safe, guys!
> 
> this chapter is dedicated to whoever had the idea of naming lance's horse goliath, you got a place in my heart, fam.
> 
> don't forget to tell me what you think of this chapter in the comments!!

They set off at the break of dawn.

Lancelot doesn’t know how Squirrel finds out about their mission, judging by the way Gawain exchanges a look with the former monk when the boy insists on accompanying them, claiming that Gawain had knighted him back at the Paladin camp, and that knights are supposed to protect the people. What does surprise Lancelot is that Squirrel asks  _ him  _ if he can come along, instead of asking Gawain. He doesn’t want to risk the boy getting caught by the Red Paladins  _ again,  _ but when Lancelot looks into his eyes and sees them glistening with tears that the boy fights not to shed for Nimue, he has no other choice but to make space for Squirrel atop his horse.

Gawain is not mad at Lancelot for allowing that, although they share the same fear for the boy’s safety, and they probably will have it all the way to the lake and back to the Fey camp. Lancelot’s wounds have healed almost completely, even the infected ones, much to Pym’s surprise. She tells him to take it easy though, and Lancelot is not ungrateful for her concern, but he feels up to the task. He will protect their little party to the best of his abilities, and they have Gawain too. It comforts Lancelot to know that, and he spares a glance to the man riding quietly by his side, enjoying the warm sunlight on his handsome face.

Handsome? Lancelot swallows and forces himself to look away, mainly to hide the blush on his cheeks. It wouldn’t do to entertain such thoughts on a serious mission like this.

Lancelot hopes that bringing Nimue back home will be a start to get him on the rest of the Feys’ good graces. He’s used to the looks of fear and hatred of the people, human or Fey, from the countless of cities and villages he has been to with his Red Brothers. He’s not particularly proud of it, has never been even when he was still the Weeping Monk with Father Carden at his side. Lancelot was only doing his job back then, and although there is no excuse for the mass murder of Feys and human sinners alike, he was never heartless about it.

He knows that no amount of good deeds will ever make up for all the bad he’s done. He deserves the mistrust and even the hate of a Fey who has lost family and friends at his hands. There’s too much blood on them to be washed away, but Lancelot hopes that if this goes well, he won’t stain anything good that he touches from now on.

Lancelot looks around to the trees surrounding them. His ears and eyes are trained to detect any danger to himself from so many years of walking the woods, tracking down Feys for the slaughter. He hears no other sounds except the chirping of birds and the occasional rabbit’s paws on the leaf-covered ground. Lancelot unclenches his jaw from where he had been gritting his teeth in anticipation, and dismounts to let his horse rest from the weight of him onto its back. He brushes the black mane with his fingers and gets a soft bump of Goliath’s snout to his arm.

“He likes you,” Gawain’s voice is close. When Lancelot turns his head, he finds the man only a few feet behind him.

“I know,” he replies. “I’ve had him since he was barely more than a foal.”

Gawain smiles. “What is his name?”

“Goliath.”

“It suits him,” Gawain’s smile broadens when the horse sniffs at his raised hand, and deems the knight friendly enough to let his head be pet. “Goliath was a big guy too, wasn’t he?”

Lancelot frowns. “How do you know that?”

“I may be a Fey, Lancelot, but I like myself some good stories every now and then.”

The monk nods, but doesn’t reply. He realizes he’s grinning like a fool when the skin of his cheeks starts to feel uncomfortable by the stretch. “We should find a place to set up camp soon, before it gets dark”, he says instead.

“I shall tell the others.” Gawain squeezes Lancelot’s shoulder before he goes. The latter is proud of the way he barely flinches when the knight does that lately, although the place where Gawain’s hand rests for those couple of seconds tingles in a pleasant manner, even through Lancelot’s dark clothes. He refuses to consider it affectionate, though. He’s not as deluded to think it’s something more than a promise that they will keep talking later.

He watches Gawain walk up to the others. Pym has an arm around Squirrel’s shoulder and her unoccupied hand holding her horse’s reins. Merlin nods to Gawain’s words, and Morgana doesn’t bother dismounting. She throws a look to Lancelot atop her horse, one that he has a hard time figuring out what it means. He knows that Morgana trusts him as far as she can throw him, or at least she could trust in his tracking talent, as he knows Merlin does. She might be human, but she’s loyal to Nimue to the core, and Lancelot respects that.

The biggest surprise to Lancelot has been Pym. For a girl that has seen her village burned to the ground and its people killed by the Red Paladins’ hands, she has not hesitated to tend to Lancelot’s wounds when Gawain asked her, the only time he could understand she wouldn’t argue against healing the Weeping Monk. But after that, Pym has been unfailing in asking Lancelot after his own well-being, not out of obligation but genuine care. He can see she will become an excellent healer in time.

They find a small clearing in the middle of the woods that they can use to pass the night. Lancelot excuses himself after they finish setting up the tents and starting the fire. He grabs his bow and his quiver of arrows, and heads out into the trees. Lancelot watches out for any flash of red robes or torches, but there’s none. A chilling wind blows from the north, and Lancelot knows that it will get colder still when the sun goes down completely. The earthy smell of the forest is familiar and comforting, and when he is quite far away, he takes a seat on a log and closes his eyes. His hearing is good enough to not let him get too distracted, but there’s only silence around him.

Lancelot wishes he could see the real path for him now. He has learned from Morgana and Merlin that Nimue beheaded Father Carden. Lancelot had expected to feel sorry for his death, but surprisingly he doesn’t. He only feels completely lost in the world. His whole life Father was there, guiding the demon he had taken under his wing closer to the grace of God. Lancelot has never felt it, and he guesses that he will never do, not now that he has strayed from the road to salvation.

This is a point of no return, he knows. Lancelot could never go back to the Paladin camp after killing so many members of the Trinity Guard just to spare a Fey boy from a certain death. Abbott Wicklow will never accept his forgiveness. Nor Lancelot is willing to beg for it, because he still feels he has done nothing wrong, damn him. The rule of no killing children is one that Lancelot will never dare breaking, no matter what. Especially such a bright and brave child like Squirrel. Only thinking about seeing the boy’s blood dripping from the blade of a Paladin’s sword is enough to make Lancelot’s stomach churn.

Nimue is another matter entirely. The witch that Father Carden had instructed him to find, who had made him go around in circles and question his every abilities, everything that makes Lancelot who he is. Now he's on a mission to save her, granted there is someone to save at all. They need to trust that Morgana is right and the Fey queen is alive somewhere; perhaps there is something called destiny, and it has a plan for everyone. Lancelot hopes that it’s worth it, risking so much.

For all that he believes in God, and used to believe in Father Carden’s teachings, they could never take away Lancelot’s belief in the Hidden’s power. He only realizes this now, and it tells how much of a good job he’s done to suppress it all these years. No greater proof there is than Gawain coming back from the dead, or a near death, in Brother Salt's kitchen. Gawain is all a knight should be, and Lancelot feels a flush of shame burning hot on the skin of his neck at the thought that he could have burned Gawain alive back at the mill, and many other Feys with him. The man had stayed with his people to die by their sides if needed be, because it was the right thing in his eyes. Lancelot doesn’t know if he could ever be capable of having such courage, such selflessness.

It still baffles Lancelot how  _ kind  _ Gawain had been to him after bringing Squirrel home safely. Not out of gratitude or duty, but out of common decency. The Church doesn’t understand the meaning of forgiveness as well as Lancelot does when he looks into Gawain’s green eyes. He wonders how much time it will take for him to accept it though, when Lancelot should be the one  _ begging  _ for the Feys' forgiveness in the first place.

He takes a dagger out of its sheath by his hip. He presses the sharp blade against the blue veins under the skin of his wrist. It burns him, but Lancelot keeps pressing it, wanting the pain so badly he’s going dizzy with anticipation. Drops of blood well up and run hot down his arm, disappearing under the dark sleeve of his cloak. Lancelot hisses and takes the dagger away. He brings the pad of his finger to the cut, and then takes it to his mouth. The iron taste makes itself known, and the blood surely stains his teeth and lips scarlet, but he doesn’t mind. The pain is not good enough, less than a demon like him deserves to feel. Lancelot longs to have a whip on him; Father had encouraged it, he had said that the punishment pleases the Lord, and someday, if he repents hard enough, He might let Lancelot, damned as he is, feel His grace. It could grant him a place in Heaven, Father had said. Isn’t that what he wants?  _ Isn’t that what you want, my son? _

“Yes, Father,” he whispers to the darkness.

The tears run down Lancelot’s face. Not the ones that he had been born with, the ones that he has wished time and time again to erase from his skin. These are salty and less shameful. These tears feel hot on his cheeks, like the hellfire that surely awaits for him when his heart stops beating in his chest. Lancelot might even welcome it, anything to make this wasteland of a feeling go away.

Footsteps.

Lancelot is on his feet in a second. He grips the dagger in his hand tightly, but something stops him from unsheathing his sword. The footsteps were light, like a child’s. He drops the sharp object to the ground and sighs.

“Percival, come out.”

The boy has the decency to look ashamed, but meets Lancelot’s eyes bravely when he circles the tree he’s been hiding behind. The monk stretches his right hand to beckon him closer, the left arm that still bleeds sluggishly out of sight when he puts his hand in his cloak's pocket. Squirrel approaches him, and true to his nature, throws his arms around Lancelot.

The monk gets to his knees to be face-to-face with the boy. “What are you doing here?”

“You were taking too long. I thought the Paladins had caught you.”

Lancelot smiles reassuringly. “I’m still here, little one.”

“I’m not little!”, the boy exclaims, feigning offense.

“You are, and slippery like your nickname. How is it that Gawain and the rest didn’t notice you left camp?”

Squirrel shrugs, not willing to reveal his secret just yet. Lancelot drops the subject, not really wanting to know, maybe wisely. A weight has lifted off his chest now that the boy is here, and the monk is not alone to punish himself in peace.

“Who were you talking to, anyway?” Squirrel asks as they walk back to camp.

“Myself.” Lancelot curses himself in his head as he replies.

“That can’t be. I heard you say ‘Father’. Did you mean that ugly Paladin priest you were always with?”

Lancelot stays quiet for a few moments, trying to find the right words to say. There are none, he realizes, as far as Squirrel is concerned. The monk can’t bullshit his way out of this.

“Yes,” he replies. “I talk to him sometimes.”

“What for?”

Lying is not the same as omitting the truth. He could never make up a good reason for speaking as if Father Carden were still here. But he can omit the reason  _ why.  _ Lancelot is glad that Squirrel doesn’t have the same abilities than he, and therefore can’t smell the blood trailing down his arm and staining his cloak.

“A priest is the mouth and ears of God on Earth,” Lancelot explains. “When you confess your sins to a priest, God listens and communicates His will through him.”

Squirrel frowns, his brow creasing in a way that is not confusion, but him knowing better. Lancelot wishes they weren’t talking about this. He has no business talking to a Fey boy about God and the sins of men. Lancelot has enough of those to last him for a lifetime, and they’re his alone now. He has shared his deepest secrets with Father once, now but the latter has taken them to his grave. 

“I don’t think you have sins to confess, Lancelot. If you truly regret what you did, no God can tell you that you still have them.”

“Do you think I regret it?” Lancelot asks.

Squirrel nods. “I know you do. You saved me, and you’re gonna save Nimue. That counts for something, you know?”

Lancelot doesn’t reply. He wishes for the boy to be right in this, but deep down he knows. He will have to live with what he’s done, and someday if he’s lucky, the weight will get easier to bear on his weary shoulders.

On the walk back, Lancelot manages to shoot a rabbit and a hare. Surprisingly, due to the non-stop chatter the boy offers him. When they get to camp, Lancelot washes his hands and gets to skin the animals under the watchful gaze of Morgana, and the impressed one of Squirrel. When Lancelot is done, he impales the meat on several sticks and puts them above the fire to cook.

He leaves the tastiest parts that he would have eaten himself if he were alone, to Squirrel, who thanks him hurriedly before he tears into them with a voracious hunger. Lancelot smiles as he watches the boy, and contents himself with what’s left of their meal. When he looks up, Gawain is watching him, as well as Merlin, Morgana and Pym. The latter three look surprised at the unusual situation, but the knight purses his lips.

Lancelot ignores them in favor of eating, but when they’re alone, he’s confronted by Gawain.

They have decided to share a tent for practicality. They’re big enough for two people; the girls share their own, while Squirrel sleeps in another one. Merlin had decided to stay awake for the first watch, in case the Red Paladins find them and think of ambushing them while they sleep. Squirrel had insisted on standing guard too, but Lancelot hadn’t relented this time. For all that he likes the boy, he’s too loud for such an endeavour.

“Squirrel followed you into the woods,” Gawain says. At Lancelot’s frown, he adds, “I realized. I knew he would find you, and you would keep him safe.”

“Is this a reproach?”, Lancelot asks, a bit annoyed.

“No.”

He takes out his bedroll from Goliath’s saddlebags, and gets into the tent.

“Lancelot.”

“ _ What? _ ”

Gawain breaches the gap between them, and takes the monk’s left elbow in his hand. When he raises the arm slightly, the knight sees the dark sleeve stained with dried blood and the horizontal cut that the dagger left on Lancelot's wrist. 

“You can talk to me,” Gawain says, but Lancelot doesn’t reply. His grip is not tight, and the knight lets go when the monk tries to get away. “It’s your choice.”

The two men get into their bedrolls, and Lancelot wills his eyes to stay close for more than ten seconds. He knows that Gawain is not asleep yet, and wonders if the other man senses somehow that the words are fighting to leave Lancelot’s mouth.

“I don’t think I deserve your forgiveness,” he starts tentatively. Gawain is quiet by his side, a sign that Lancelot can keep talking and be heard. “It’s too much.”

“What do you think I must do with you?”, the knight asks.

Lancelot shakes his head. He realizes a second later that the man can’t see him in the dark, and replies, “I don’t know. Killing me would be a mercy too.”

“We’re not being  _ merciful  _ to you, Lancelot,” Gawain rebukes, not unkindly. “We’re giving you the chance to prove yourself to the Fey cause. You can’t do that if you’re dead, can you?”

“I guess so.”

Silence hangs heavy between them before Lancelot breaks it again. “I just wanted God to listen.”

“I know,” Gawain replies. A hand touches his forearm, featherlight. Lancelot doesn’t flinch. “But you’re not a monster, Lancelot of the Ash Folk. You never were, and you will never be. You have to trust me on this."

Lancelot shivers when the contact is broken. The cold of the ground beneath him is seeping slowly into his bones. He doesn’t want it. He just wants Gawain to touch him again.

For the first time in his life, his wish is granted. Gawain moves to his side, until his chest is pressed against Lancelot’s back and the knight’s warm breath tickles his neck. He throws an arm around the latter’s waist slowly, not wanting to frighten the monk, and asking silently for his permission at the same time. Gawain doesn’t make up an excuse for this sudden behaviour, nor Lancelot needs one. He closes his eyes, and sleep takes him quickly, but not before hearing Gawain’s low voice wishing him a good night.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so happy about all the comments I've been getting thus far! Thank you and enjoy this new chapter 💜
> 
> English is not my first language so apologies for any grammatical errors.

The next morning finds Gawain applying salve and bandaging Lancelot’s left wrist as gently as he can with his calloused hands.

Lancelot feels awkward, a feeling he’s not accustomed to and doesn’t like one bit. He tries to protest when Gawain goes out of their tent just before dawn to get the supplies from his bag. Shame courses through the monk’s veins; he doesn’t want to be a bother, or waste the knight’s time and supplies because of his own idiocy. The latter are needed for when they find Nimue, and the former… well, it leaves Lancelot with a feeling in his chest he can’t quite place. Gawain shouldn’t be sharing the burden of his sins, no matter what he says about Lancelot not being a monster.

He doesn’t flinch anymore when Gawain touches him. The only one who has ever done so since Lancelot can remember was Father Carden. A squeeze of his shoulder, a palm on his scarred back. That had hurt, especially after a long session with the whip. It had only served to remind Lancelot that there is no reward without pain. Father had been kind with his touches, yet he had not hesitated to slap him whenever he misspoke or did something that was not appropriate for a monk. Lancelot had had no other choice but to learn his lessons, if he wanted to feel Father’s love and affection.

Gawain promises not to say a word to Pym or the others about what Lancelot had done. He is relieved, not really wanting all the focus on him, and Lancelot has had quite a close call when Squirrel had gone into the woods looking for him.

When Gawain is done bandaging his arm, he stares at Lancelot for a few moments. “Have you ever done this before?”, he asks, gesturing to the monk’s arm with his finger.

Lancelot nods.

“Are there… more of that?”

This time he closes his eyes before nodding again.

Gawain sighs. “No God could wish for someone to do this, Lancelot.”

“You don’t understand,” he replies. “My sins--”

“What is done is done,” Gawain interrupts, not unkindly. “You can’t change it, and neither can I. We shall not dwell in the past, brother. It is not good for any of us.”

Lancelot can’t meet his gaze, not of his own accord. So when he feels Gawain’s warm hand on his cheek, he takes courage and looks up into those beautiful green eyes of the knight in front of him.

“I know it will be hard for me to convince you,” he says. “In the meantime, whenever you find yourself in a situation that makes you want to harm yourself, you can come to me. I meant what I said last night.”

“Which one of the things you said?”, Lancelot asks with a small smile that surely doesn’t reach his eyes.

“All of it.”

Outside the tent, Pym has been trying to wake Squirrel for several minutes now, but to no avail. The boy whines about being too early for whatever ‘this’ means to him; in the end, it takes Lancelot going into his tent, and promising Squirrel to let him ride Goliath by himself today. The boy makes a face at him, but gets out of his bedroll. Pym, who was outside undoubtedly listening to their conversation, thanks Lancelot with a fond but exasperated look on her face at Squirrel’s dramatics. A look that surely reflects on the monk’s face too.

They need to cover as much ground as they can, so they ride all through the morning, stopping at a small stream for a quick lunch for themselves and the horses. A stream that Merlin says flows into the lake Nimue disappeared in. Lancelot hadn’t needed for the wizard to tell him that; if he concentrates hard enough, he can hear the sound of rushing water in the distance, coming from the waterfall and lake alike.

Before they resume their travel, Morgana takes a dark green dress and hands it to Lancelot.

“It is Nimue’s,” she explains. He nods at her, and she turns around without looking back, mounting her horse. Lancelot can smell the Fey queen’s scent on her clothes, clover and forest and _magic_. The latter has never been something he could describe, not even to Father Carden. It’s just something that’s in Lancelot's blood, that only a Fey with his abilities may know. He has been useful to the Red Paladins because of them, in their mission to exterminate his own kind. Now he has to use them again, to save their queen. _God does work in mysterious ways_ , he thinks. Too bad that Lancelot has never liked mysteries.

As their horses bring them closer to the lake, Lancelot realizes the ugly truth. He looks at Merlin; he has only met the wizard a few days ago, but Lancelot has heard stories about him. A drunk, a fraud, a deceiver. Yet the man who rides ahead of him looks stern and determined. Not a whiff of the sour smell of wine reaches Lancelot’s nose. He is just a father right in this moment, desperately wanting to find his daughter.

Gawain tugs on the reins of his horse to stop at Lancelot’s side. The knight looks confused, but the look on Lancelot’s face tells him everything he needs to know.

The rest of the party stops too, turning their horses around. The sounds of wildlife are all around them, yet the silence hanging between all of them is deafening.

“There’s no trail here.” Lancelot communicates to them. “She hasn’t made it out of the lake.”

“Maybe the trail’s gone cold?,” Pym suggests, but Lancelot shakes his head. “It hasn’t rained yet. And it’s not been too many days either,” he tells her.

Merlin looks at Morgana. “Do you see anything?”

The girl closes her eyes for a while, but when she opens them, Lancelot knows she has nothing concrete to tell them. “I look for her, but I can only see water.”

They can only trust that Morgana’s vision means Nimue is still alive, because it’s the only thing Lancelot has to work with besides her dress. They don’t make any delays, wanting to reach the lake as soon as possible. Squirrel, who is riding with Lancelot on Goliath’s back, taps the monk’s hand on the reins with his fingers.

“I won’t hold it against you, you know?”, the boy starts, low enough for only Lancelot to hear. He has realized that Squirrel has been quieter than usual today, and he had thought that maybe their conversation from last night in the woods has something to do with it. He feels stupid for not realizing that Squirrel is suffering for Nimue’s disappearance as much as his friends are, if not more. According to what he’s told Lancelot on their way to the Fey camp, the boy considers Nimue the older sister he’s never had.

“Hold what against me, Percival?”

“If you can’t find Nimue. If she’s…” the boy trails off. He can’t say the word, even after all he’s been through. “Gone,” he eventually says. Lancelot wraps his free arm around the Squirrel’s waist in what he hopes it’s a demonstration of comfort. The monk has never been good with words, and he’s sure that will never change. But he can at least do this for his little brave man.

He’s not good with words, so he tries to choose them carefully. “She might be, I won’t lie to you. But I do promise you that the Fey cause won’t be gone with her.”

Squirrel nods. “Thank you, Lancelot. You would make a fine knight.”

“Is that so?”, he asks with a raised eyebrow.

“Yes, I’m sure you would. You can fight as well as anyone I’ve ever met. I hope you teach me one day.”

Lancelot smiles. “I will, but I’m afraid that’s the only thing I have going for me.” Squirrel frowns at this, so the monk says, “A knight has to be brave, and protect the people. You should know, Gawain has knighted you.”

“He will knight you too if we ask him!” It’s good to see Squirrel excited about this after their previous conversation, so Lancelot doesn’t reply in fear of bursting his bubble. The boy doesn’t need to know that that’s not how it works, no matter how well Lancelot can fight. He will never measure up.

* * *

Lancelot lets the voice of the Hidden guide him.

They border the lake shore, the blue waters too calm for their taste. He can’t find a match between the scent impregnated in the dark green dress in his hand, and the smells of the wet dirt beneath their horses’ hooves, trees, and sweetwater. He can even tell a storm is coming by the sharp humid smell in the air, and he can hear the birds flapping their wings as they try to outreach it. Yet no scent of clovers and magic fills his nose.

For his protection, Lancelot had told Squirrel to ride with Pym. The boy knows this isn’t a game now, so he had obeyed with no complaints whatsoever. They all stay silent for a long while, searching for any clue of Nimue’s whereabouts, or something out of place in this scenery that might tell them where she is.

It’s when Lancelot’s head starts aching from the effort of focusing so much that he senses it.

Faint, but _there._

He frowns and Gawain, who has been alternating between observing the waters of the lake for a sign and watching Lancelot do his thing, asks, “What is it, Lancelot?”

She’s close. The Hidden’s whispers turn louder, clearer. _Nimue… lake… time..._

He urges Goliath into a galop, and the rest follow his lead close behind. It takes them closer to the waterfall, the foam of the water splashing below creating a misty cloud that doesn’t allow the Fey with him to look past it. But not Lancelot. He has a gift, and he uses it. His eyes adjust to it, and he sees the dark shape of the rock shrouded in white.

And the shape of the queen lying on it.

“I see her,” he says, dismounting. Lancelot doesn’t know if the rushing in his ears is the waterfall or his own blood, but he pays no mind to it. Clover and a forest after it’s rained. He follows that scent until he runs out of ground. The stretch of water separating the rock from them is too great for any of them to cross it without the tide pulling them in and making them crash against the other jutting rocks around it.

“Nimue!” Squirrel screams, but it’s muffled by the relentless sounds of the waterfall. Pym holds him close to herself before he thinks about running to his friend.

“We need to cross, there’s no other way,” Merlin says.

Blood. Old and new, dry and flowing out of the wounds in Nimue’s body. Lancelot purses his lips; he can’t hear a heartbeat from this distance. It shouldn’t be getting to him this much, the survival of the Fey queen, yet he finds himself with a knot in his throat.

“How shall we do that?” Gawain asks.

Merlin gets to his knees. He puts both hands in the damp grass, and they watch as they turn green. As he murmurs an enchantment, the ground starts to shake. Vines start to sprout, thick and glowing, from the ground to every direction. They entwine, braiding themselves together tightly enough to be sturdy, and quickly move across the water to latch themselves to the rock where Nimue is.

Hundreds of vines form a bridge for them to cross.

“Bring her,” Merlin says, but the wizard’s eyes are focused on Lancelot’s form before him. His arms are shaking from the draining effort of conjuring the bridge. The monk nods, and he, Gawain, and Morgana set off to retrieve Nimue.

Lancelot goes first. The vines resist his weight, and it makes him release the breath he’s been holding. Fire is the element of the Ash Folk, not water. It has always made him feel uncomfortable being close to it, knowing he can’t swim to literally save his life. They’re trying to save one now, he reasons. It’s no time to be a coward, not now that they are so close.

Gawain follows behind, and lastly Morgana. They have to walk sideways, lest they lose their balance. The vine bridge is not suspended above the water, so the little waves crashing against it threatens to throw them off. Lancelot closes his eyes after a close call to recover from the scare, and feels a hand closing around his, squeezing ever so slightly.

Lancelot knows who it belongs to. Green eyes greet him when he opens his own, and the monk nods when his heartbeat is not hammering against his ribcage anymore.

Nimue’s face is so pale to rival a ghost’s. Lancelot sees an arrow piercing her shoulder, and another sticking out her belly. There’s a trail of blood on the dark stone, signalling that Nimue dragged herself onto it before losing consciousness. Gawain takes her in his arms, slapping her cheek gently, but her eyelids don’t even flutter. Lancelot kneels by her side and cocks his head, trying to listen for a heartbeat amidst the sounds of the waterfall. It’s there, but faint. He tells this to Gawain and Morgana, and they waste no time hoisting Nimue up between the three of them.

Crossing the bridge will be even harder now for Gawain and Lancelot, bearing Nimue’s weight between them. The monk slips his arms under hers, trying to be careful with the arrows still lodged in her body, and Gawain takes her legs. All of them are wet from the splash of the waterfall, and warm blood sticks to Lancelot’s hands. His feet take them on their own accord, since he can’t look down to watch where he steps. Lancelot’s heart jumps to his throat when he trips over one of the raised vines, but he manages to stay upright. 

Before he knows it, they are only a few steps away from the shore. Merlin’s face is now red from the strain, and the second after Lancelot is on safe ground, the bridge of glowing vines is swallowed by the water as if it never existed.

The two men lay Nimue down carefully, and take a moment to catch their breaths. Pym and Merlin fuse over the queen, but she’s not waking up. Lancelot sees that Squirrel is torn between going to Nimue, or hugging the monk.

“I’m fine, go,” Lancelot tells him, and the boy takes off quickly to kneel by Nimue’s side.

Pym tries her best to reanimate her, but nothing’s working. “She’s lost too much blood,” the girl says. Lancelot knows how much an arrow in your body hurts, so he’s surprised when Pym takes them out one by one and Nimue doesn’t even move. She’s pale, and cold. He realizes that life is going to leave her. He can’t believe that this has all been for nothing. Squirrel starts to cry.

Lancelot finally approaches.

Gawain looks up from where he’s using his hands to support Nimue’s head. His green eyes glisten with tears, as Morgana’s dark ones do too. None of them object to him being there, so Lancelot takes it as acceptance for him to keep walking until he’s next to Gawain.

“She can’t die,” the knight whispers to him. Lancelot puts a hand on his back because he doesn’t know what else to do to comfort him. He has the childish urge to cover his ears to muffle Squirrel’s crying.

Lancelot doesn’t know where the idea comes from. He only knows that it could work, _feels_ it in his very bones.

“Give me the Sword,” he says to Merlin. The wizard steps back warily, and Morgana moves to stand protectively between Lancelot and Nimue’s unmoving figure. Strangely, Gawain doesn’t stand and draw his own sword to defend his queen, although he’s paying attention to what’s unfolding in front of him. Lancelot allows himself to imagine for a second that he has the knight’s trust.

The monk raises his empty hands. “I think I know how to save her, but I need the Sword for that.”

“How?”, Merlin’s tone is not suspicious, just merely curious.

Lancelot hears the whisper in his ear. He doesn’t need to guess who the voice belongs to. “Magic calls to magic,” he simply answers.

Merlin considers his words for a few moments. Lancelot has never seen the Sword of Power with his own two eyes before. _It’s truly beautiful_ , he thinks, watching the runes in it sparkle golden. It radiates such an amount of power that his own abilities are overwhelmed with it, the air around the Sword thrumming with it. Merlin offers the Sword to Lancelot, hilt first.

His hand shakes as he reaches out, ignoring Morgana’s protests. Its name certainly does it justice. Power courses sharp and hot through Lancelot’s veins the second his fingers close around the hilt. He can’t help the awed smile on his face as he beholds it for those few precious seconds.

He walks back to where Nimue is. Everyone’s eyes are on him, particularly his right hand in which he’s holding the Sword. Lancelot makes sure not to do any sudden move, to put his companions at ease about his intentions as he takes Nimue’s hand in his free one, and guides it to the hilt of the Sword. Her hand is so cold to the touch that Lancelot thinks for a couple of seconds that she’s already passed into the twilight, but her pulse is there, slow but surely beating. 

He closes Nimue’s fingers around the hilt until he’s sure the Sword is firm in her grasp. For several moments nothing happens, and Lancelot is sure the plan has failed. He swallows thickly, getting ready to apologize for his ridiculous notion, when they all hear a tinkling sound coming from somewhere.

Lancelot thinks that fireflies are starting to come out of the Sword’s runes, but on a second look it’s just tiny golden particles, floating in the air and engulfing Nimue’s body. Everyone takes several steps back, letting the magic do its work on the Fey queen. There’s thousands and thousands of them, covering her until not an inch of her limbs are visible. It’s when the sight becomes too bright for their eyes that the gold melts away back into the runes to reveal Nimue, sitting up and grabbing her head.

“Where am I?,” she asks, voice hoarse before she starts coughing all the water she’s swallowed. Not a trace of blood or injury can be seen. 

She turns her head to where they are standing, her blue eyes lighting up in recognition of her friends and family.

Until they meet Lancelot’s.

Until her eyes see the dark tears running down his face.

" _You_ ," Nimue says, cold as ice. 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I made myself cry writing this, so I hope you enjoy it! 
> 
> Let me know what you think of this chapter in the comments 😊💞

“I know you. You are the Weeping Monk, the one who was at the Abbey with the Red Paladins,” Nimue makes her way to Lancelot as she speaks, blue eyes gleaming furious. “You killed our people, you butcher!”

Lancelot doesn’t stop her, even as he sees the hand flying to the side of his face. Nimue backhand slaps him so hard that his mouth fills with the iron taste of blood when he bites his tongue from the force of the blow, and he turns his head, spitting it on the ground. Gawain and Merlin hold her by the arms and pull her away from Lancelot, while Squirrel runs to him, asking if he’s alright and then looking at Nimue as if she’s not someone he recognizes anymore.

The fight in her eyes suddenly leaves Nimue when she sees the boy. “Let go of me,” she tells the men, resigned.

Lancelot’s face burns from the slap, but he doesn’t say a word in his defense. He knows there are none. He will carry the sins he has committed forever, marred in his skin, and in his soul. Even saving the life of the Fey queen won’t erase them. He will carry them to the flames of Hell, where the real punishment awaits him.

He deserves this.

He considers the situation for a moment. He watches as Merlin and Nimue break their embrace, and she drops to her knees to hug Squirrel tightly to herself, telling him she’s glad that he’s safe. Then it’s the turn of Gawain, whom she had last heard was at the Paladin camp. They laugh, relieved that the other is alive and well, as they hug and Gawain runs a hand through her hair affectionately, as a big brother would to his sister. Pym and Morgana don’t wait for their turns, and the three girls do a little spin when they’re in each other’s arms.

Before they reached camp only a few days ago, Lancelot had had in mind leaving. There is only one home he knows, that isn’t by Father Carden’s side. He had thought of fleeing to the mountains of the Ash Folk before he remembered that there’s no one there anymore. The Paladins had massacred his village when Lancelot was barely more than a toddler, yet he knows the way from studying the maps when Father's back was turned to him. Empty shells of huts and charred bones is surely what’s left of it, but it’s better than nothing. Lancelot could rebuild his life there, a quiet life away from the war, and from God.

Just him, and the ghosts of the dead to haunt his nights.

Lancelot could run, yes, but he knows he would have to go over the bodies of the people here. They wouldn’t let him go, no matter if it’s to never be seen again. More Fey blood on his hands wouldn’t really make a difference, yet he’s unwilling to do it. Something he has done hundreds of times, and he can’t bring himself to do just once more. Not when he sees Squirrel smile brightly at finally being reunited with Nimue. 

Gawain would fight him, his honor as a knight would compel him to. Lancelot has almost managed to beat him once, and he’s sure he could do it again. But the thought is fleeting, as it is replaced by the memories of the night before, when Gawain held him close to himself, and just this morning when he bandaged Lancelot’s wrist and told him it is alright to speak his mind. How could Lancelot spill the blood of a man like him? He has done so before, and he knows those men hadn’t been any different from Gawain, yet the monk feels somewhere deep in his soul that they were.

They wouldn’t have trusted Lancelot as Gawain does. And he knows he cannot betray that trust, even if it condemns him to burn in hellfire.

So when they are mounted on their horses, walking through the forest back to Fey camp, and Lancelot hears in the distance the sounds of an army of Red Paladins and Trinity Guards alike marching towards them, he knows what to do.

Nimue is still weak from the whole ordeal of almost dying, needing time for the magic of the Sword of Power to complete its job of healing her. But her eyes become alert in seconds when she hears the two dreadful words coming out of Lancelot’s mouth.

“They’re coming.”

* * *

“No.”

“Yes,” Lancelot says, his head tilted to measure the distance between the religious army and their little party. “I have to do this on my own.”

Gawain shakes his head. _This stubborn man._ “Are you _insane_!? You cannot take out an army by yourself, Lancelot.”

“He’s right,” Nimue says. They had told her the short version of the events leading to her rescue. She had understood that they couldn’t have saved her without Lancelot’s help, yet Gawain knows it will take some time for her to let go of her wariness. “No matter your prowess with a sword, you’re still just one man against hundreds, monk.”

Lancelot ignores them, listening into a conversation far away. “They have a pretty clear guess of where the Fey camp is located,” he tells them after a few moments. “We don’t have time to waste.”

"We have the Sword of Power," Morgana says. "Merlin could use it, as he did back at the bridge."

"Yes, because it turned out so well the first time around," the wizard's tone is sarcastic mixed with grimness. "If I do that again, I'm afraid I won't be able to stop myself."

“Magic would attract too much attention,” Lancelot replies. 

They know it for the truth it is, yet Gawain is reluctant to let the monk sacrifice himself for them. Call him selfish, but Gawain doesn’t want the man to die like this, cut down by the people he managed to break free from after a life in their clutches. If the hour ever comes for Lancelot to pass into the twilight, the knight would much prefer he does fighting a battle he has a chance to win.

But a man is the owner of his decisions. Gawain can’t deny this to Lancelot if it’s truly his wish, no matter how much it pains the knight. He can see the determination in Lancelot’s face, the will to redeem himself in the eyes of the Fey with him to the point of giving up his own life to help them escape. That’s bravery too, despite the monk’s words to Squirrel that Gawain couldn’t help listening from his place behind them. Fighting well with a sword is not the only thing Lancelot has going for himself, this brilliant and sad man.

Gawain doesn’t want to let him march to a certain death without telling him so. But when he’s standing in front of Lancelot, feeling the warmth radiating off his body when they briefly hug in farewell, he can only whisper, “Be safe, brother.”

Gawain knows these empty words will keep him awake more than one night in the days to follow.

Lancelot nods. "Take the road west, and keep close to the lake. I'll hold them off for a while, but it should be enough for you to lose them."

 _I don't want to lose_ you. 

Gawain mounts his horse before he can do something as foolish as say it out loud.

* * *

Squirrel, as much as Pym has tried to keep him away from their conversation, realizes what’s going on when Lancelot doesn’t mount on Goliath’s back, and instead hands the reins to Morgana, who ties them securely to her own mare.

The boy runs to Lancelot, who drops to one knee and catches him in his arms. He doesn’t allow the hug to linger, for fear of not being able to let go. Lancelot can’t let himself be convinced otherwise about this.

“You can’t do this!”, the boy all but screams in Lancelot’s face, tears running down his cheeks. “Lancelot, please…”

“I have to, little one.” The army is cornering them against the lake, and when they start gaining ground on them, the Fey will have no chance to flee. Lancelot keeps this in mind as he says, “Now go, and do everything you’re told, alright? Born in the dawn…”

“To pass in the twilight,” Squirrel replies. He throws his arms around Lancelot’s neck once again, until Nimue comes and takes him away. Her face when she looks at Lancelot over her shoulder is hard to decipher, but any trace of animosity in her blue eyes has faded to give way to something akin to pity for the already-dead man that meets her gaze.

Pym has tears in her eyes too. “Thank you, Lancelot,” she says from her place on her horse. He gives her a small smile and a nod, and she spurs the animal into a gallop to catch up with the rest of her friends.

Lancelot stares at the retreating figures of the Fey for a few moments, before he forces himself to turn around and walk towards the oncoming army.

He takes out his bow, notches an arrow, and fires from his strategically chosen place on a tree branch, out of sight of the Paladin scouts. He takes out three of them with an arrow to their hearts, blood soaking the earth and mixing with their red robes. Lancelot does the same a few more times with the other scouts who come looking after their fallen brothers, until they stop altogether. 

He climbs down the tree, hood pulled up. For this, he has come back to being the Weeping Monk. He takes out his swords, the sound of steel brushing against the insides of their sheaths breaking the silence of the forest. Lancelot walks to meet his destiny, sure on his feet.

The Fey are already out of earshot when he encounters the group of Red Paladins. When one of them looks up from his dinner, his eyes go wide as plates. The man taps on his brother’s shoulder, who turns his head from his conversation with another man to know what the commotion is about. When he sees Lancelot, he smiles.

“Our Weeping Brother returns!,” he exclaims, getting on his feet. “We had thought you lost to us after Father Carden’s most foul murder, but I see God in his mercy has brought you back.”

“Brother Ethelbert,” Lancelot greets.

“The Wolf-Blood Witch has escaped us once again after beheading our Father, may God keep him in His glory.” Ethelbert frowns when he sees the swords in Lancelot’s hands, gleaming dangerously. “Where have you been, though?”

Lancelot smirks. “Why, _brother_ , I parted with the Fey just moments ago."

The Paladins, upon hearing Lancelot’s words, forget all about their dinner and take out their weapons. One of them makes a mad dash to Lancelot with a mace, and is the first to be killed, Lancelot cutting his throat quickly. Two more approach him, but they surely realize they’re no match for the Weeping Monk, as they tremble as if they were boys half their age. Lancelot doesn’t waste any more time dispatching them, turning to Ethelbert when the bodies hit the ground.

The man walks backwards as Lancelot closes the space between them, like a cornered prey. He has no weapons but a small boot knife, which he grips in his hand, the tip pointing to Lancelot. With a swift movement of his arm, Lancelot cuts the limb from root, hot blood splattering his own face because of the proximity. Ethelbert screams, surely alerting the other Paladins and Trinity Guards nearby that he’s in trouble. When he’s done, the man starts pleading for mercy while he sobs uncontrollably.

“God is merciful,” Lancelot says. “But I’m not.” The sword pierces Ethelbert’s neck, quieting him forever.

Lancelot turns around.

The army comes for him.

He makes no attempt to flee, no move to get on his knees. His lips do not open to pray to a God who has never answered him. Lancelot has made a promise to do right by the Fey after a lifetime of persecuting and exterminating them. He can still feel the embrace he had received from Gawain before he left, as if the man’s ghost were here with Lancelot, a grounding presence in what are his final moments on Earth. He can only hope that the feeling will accompany him to Hell too, to comfort him when he needs it the most.

Lancelot thinks of his companions as the arrows pierce his body, one by one. Shoulder, stomach, legs. They are too many for only a man like him, but Lancelot doesn’t feel sorry for himself and the situation he has placed himself in to let the Fey live. He only feels sorry that he will never get to see Squirrel become a man, the great knight he will be. Sir Percival the Brave. Lancelot smiles as he falls on his knees.

Another hiss, and another arrow lodges deep into his flesh.

He thinks of Gawain, his green eyes burned in Lancelot’s retines. Beautiful, as all the rest of him is too. Lancelot will never get the chance to tell him now, perhaps for the best. Even here and now, he's still undeserving of Gawain. He’s just a dog that could only ever content himself with the crumbs the knight in his kindness will throw at him, and consider himself lucky for it.

A dog that will be put down soon.

He breaks his fall with his hands, his swords long gone from his grasp. They turn green when they make contact with the grass. Lancelot doesn’t care who might see anymore, and it’s so liberating that he feels giddy. A laugh escapes past his lips, wet with blood, the first time he’s ever laughed and meant it. He likes the sound. He’s glad for this moment, amidst all the pain and chaos around him.

He can feel the hellfire licking at his heels, yet he can only stare at his hands, and the way they’re turning the grass under them a red glowing color, like the embers of a dying fire. Lancelot thinks this odd, probably his mind playing tricks on him as the liquid of his life flows out of his many wounds and spatters onto the ground.

But no, he can hear the sizzling of the grass burning. The earth turns hotter and hotter, but Lancelot somehow doesn’t feel it scorching his flesh. The flames spread, the breeze helping them do so, slowly and then taking speed. If he were to raise his head, Lancelot would see the shock plastered in the Paladins’ faces, at least the ones who are still rooted to their spots.

They are the first to burn.

The flames are orange and red and blue at first, but then they turn a green and silver color as they grow in size. They consume everything and everyone in their path. The ones who run only delay their fate for a few seconds before they are screaming, blood-curling sounds all around, deafening, relentless.

Lancelot screams too, as the fire ravages the land around him, and turns the enemies of the Fey to ash. Each second that passes the flames become bigger and hotter, luminescent green. Fey fire, once again.

The fire of the Ash Folk, coming back for vengeance at long last. 

The fire of his people, pouring out of Lancelot, damning him in the eyes of God and men.

But it's worth it. _Oh, so very worth it._

That’s the last thought in Lancelot’s mind before he collapses on a field of smoking blackened earth with a smile on his lips, and the ashes of hundreds of men blowing in the wind.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you think of this chapter in the comments 😊
> 
> Thank you for all of them and the kudos too, y'all are the best ❤️

Gawain is standing high on the watchtower of the blackened stone city walls. Nimue had opposed this, preferring he keep himself busy patrolling the streets bustling with Fey, or giving the smiths a hand to fabricate weapons for them to use. She is his queen and one of his dearest friends, yes, but there is no place Gawain would rather be right now than here in this ruined tower, watching with unseeing eyes at the expanse of green that are the trees before him.

Waiting. Hoping.

Gawain can still see the green fire illuminating the cloudy skies, bringing trees down in the distance with such force that had made the earth shake under their feet. None of them had uttered a word as they watched the spectacle with wide eyes, faint green shadows dancing queerly on their faces.

It was when it was over that the weight of what had just happened crushed Gawain like a wall of bricks falling on top of his chest. The heavy silence that had settled around them had been broken by Merlin, whispering that something was impossible, and other things Gawain didn’t bother staying to listen to. He doesn’t remember when he dismounted, only when he felt Nimue’s hand on his arm, stopping him in his tracks.

“Lancelot,” he had whispered, staring at the darkness between the trees, waiting for a dark cloaked figure to emerge from them, bloody and dirty from the fight, but in one piece. Smiling, Gawain had imagined Lancelot, smiling at realizing they had waited for him to finally go home.

But that had been a fool’s hope.

Lancelot was gone. No one has ever walked out of a fire like that and lived to tell the tale.

When Gawain realized this, standing in the darkness of the forest, no tear rolled down his cheek. He lowered his gaze at Nimue, her blue eyes meeting his. She was still healing, and they all needed much rest after the stressful days they’ve been through. Pym had Squirrel in her arms, the boy crying on her shoulder, her own tears falling to the ground to get lost among the leaves.

Even Merlin and Morgana had seemed upset at the thought of Lancelot being gone for good, the former out of gratitude at him for saving his daughter’s life.

Gawain, though. He had entered a state of numbness that nothing could get him out of. They had reached the camp in little more than a day, riding their poor horses almost to the point of exhaustion. It hadn’t been easy to move the Fey to another location with the Red Paladins possibly watching their every movement. But none had appeared, and when the Fey scouts had found an abandoned city that had been put to the torch recently, a couple of days walk from where they previously were, they had had no better choice but to occupy it lest they be caught at camp unprepared for an attack.

Gawain had taken his post at the watchtower since they arrived yesterday, and didn’t move. He hasn't slept more than a few hours in the past few days, and hasn’t taken off his armor in as long. He knows that a knight of the Fey should be making sure that his people survive this war, so they all can have a better life, a future for the children. Gawain knows this, yet his feet have taken root at this spot, waiting for someone who’s never coming back.

He wishes he could feel something at all. Rage, sorrow, anything would be better than this _emptiness_. They could at least motivate him into doing something other than this, something helpful to the Fey.

“Gawain,” a voice calls from the top of the rickety wooden stairs. He had not even heard footsteps, but he recognizes the voice's owner.

Pym watches him pityingly. He doesn’t like it one bit, so he turns his head back to the trees. The knight sways on his feet, exhausted. Pym, being the healer in training that she is, doesn’t miss this as she makes her way to stand next to him. “This is no good for you,” she says quietly.

 _What does it matter what is good for me?_ Gawain thinks. _Lancelot is dead because I didn’t stop him._

It’s something that has been going around Gawain’s head ever since. He knows Pym is right, this situation is not doing anyone a favor, much less to himself. And he knows that thinking about what he could have said or done to stop Lancelot for going on a suicide mission to help them escape is likely to drive him mad. He can’t help thinking them all the same.

“I should have--” he starts, but the words catch on his tongue, as they always do as of late. He couldn’t even tell Lancelot what he thought of him. Gawain is under no delusion that it would have made the man reconsider knowing what Gawain thinks of him. Most likely Lancelot would have murmured a solemn ‘thank you’ before he left to die. Still, Gawain would have liked for him to know, after all Lancelot had been through. 

“I know,” Pym replies, her hand finding Gawain’s. It’s a warm weight that he clings to like he would to a rafter in the middle of a stormy sea. “But I also know Lancelot wouldn’t have wanted for us not to fight.”

He went out fighting. Gawain should think of that, and not that they will not have a body to bury when the war is over.

“Lancelot passed into the twilight as a true warrior of the Fey should,” Gawain says, more to himself than to Pym.

She nods. “Yes, that’s why we should do right by him. So his sacrifice may not be in vain.”

Gawain thinks of something to say, but doesn’t have to for long. He hears the sounds of horses and horns, and when he looks down, the breath catches in his lungs as he sees a dark figure in a black cloak approaching fast atop a pale horse and with a twoscore of warriors at their back, to stop just outside the gates.

 _The eyes are the wrong color_ , is the only thing Gawain can think. Brown eyes, and cold, not blue as a sunlight sea. When the figure pulls back the hood, it’s a woman’s stern face that greets him. A _stranger_.

“Riders!,” Gawain shouts to the Fey below in the city. “Riders at the gates!”

* * *

_Clip-clop._

_Clip-clop._

_Clip-clop._

The sounds are distant, like coming from the end of a tunnel.

_Clip-clop._

He feels himself move up and down, but he can’t open his eyes. His face is hanging down, making it ache even more than it already is.

_Clip-clop._

The sounds are nearer now, clearer. His whole body aches, like he’s been trampled under a horse’s hooves.

_Clip-clop._

There’s warmth all around himself, yet Lancelot shivers. He’s tired, and the fog in his mind doesn’t allow him to register anything remotely familiar. His eyes don’t open.

He realizes they are opened, but he doesn’t see a thing.

Panic coils deep in his gut, and he tries to move, but pain flares from everywhere in his body and he has to bite down a gasp. He feels the rough material of a blindfold on his skin, making his eyelids itch. The _clip-clop_ sound doesn’t stop, but as Lancelot’s eyes get accustomed to being in the dark, his hearing sharpens.

A horse’s hooves. Perhaps he wasn’t so mistaken after all.

But he’s sitting astride of the animal, moving with it. Squelching sounds follow, as if the horse was stepping on muddy puddles. Lancelot raises his head slightly to avoid the pain that comes with this action, to feel cold drops of rain hit his cheeks. He hasn’t realized how thirsty he is, his mouth so dry Lancelot thinks he couldn’t utter a word even if he tried. He would have opened it to taste the rain if he didn’t feel the warm weight behind his back, a hand tight around his waist but careful of not pressing on his wounds.

 _Wounds_.

Memories come back to him, a blur of red and green. Fire burning everything around Lancelot, and he on his knees, commanding it. He watches through the eye of his mind the Red Paladins who once had been his brothers, being consumed by the green, flapping around like grotesque puppets as the flesh of their bodies sloughs off before they are just bones, and even they turn to ash in seconds by the hotness of the Fey fire.

Lancelot can hear their screams, as clearly as he can now hear the steady rain falling down from the sky.

He shivers again. The arm around his waist tightens.

“Don’t move around too much, monk,” the voice says, deep and commanding.

 _Gawain_? Lancelot tries to call the man’s name, but instead he mumbles something incomprehensible even to his own ears. There’s something wrong with that voice, though. Gawain’s voice has never sounded like that, cold and detached. Even when he and Lancelot had fought not too long ago, and the knight had asked how Lancelot could have betrayed his own kind like he had been doing since he was orphaned by the Paladins, his tone had been disbelieving but never hateful. Being uncaring is not in Gawain’s nature, Lancelot knows this deep in his black soul.

 _All Fey are brothers, even the lost ones._

He holds onto those words like anchors as the exhaustion takes over him again.

* * *

When he wakes, it’s to the smell of smoke and the sight of a starry sky.

He’s lying on the damp ground, his tattered black cloak covering his shivering body. Lancelot winces as the motion pulls at the stitches in the skin of his belly and shoulder. A fire is roaring a few feet away from him, the heat welcome on Lancelot’s cold cheeks. He sits up with more difficulty than he’s ever had, finding his hands bound together with rope. It has already burned the skin of his wrists from the friction, a red gash circling them, but Lancelot doesn’t feel it.

He’s looking at the woman on the other side of the fire, sharpening a long curved sword with a whetstone.

Everything about her is dark. Her armor, her hair, her skin. When she looks up, her eyes glitter under the light of the flames, and for a second, Lancelot thinks they’re yellow.

“You’re awake,” she says, resuming her task. Her voice doesn’t betray any emotion she might be feeling.

Lancelot grunts in answer, but he doesn’t take his eyes off her. Even as roughed up as he is, his nose doesn’t fail him, and he’s glad for it. The woman is a Fey, and a warrior at that. He had best tread carefully around her.

“I suppose I should ask your name,” he whispers. He hasn’t seen her at the Fey camp, although he has been around it but a day before they had departed to search for Nimue.

The woman studies Lancelot for a moment, and then replies, “It’s Kaze.”

“Lancelot.”

“I didn’t ask, _monk_.”

The word shouldn’t hurt at all, but it does. It feels wrong to Lancelot somehow, hearing it aimed at himself. He has been the Weeping Monk almost all of his life; Father Carden knew his real name because Lancelot had told him after the Red Paladins had put his village to the torch. But the man had never used it. The name was a cursed one, just like himself. It betrayed what he really was, perhaps even more so than the dark birthmarks under his eyes. Lancelot was an old name, and a great one. The name of kings from times where the Ash Folk had been a powerful and plentiful people, masters of the Green Flame.

This Lancelot was just an orphan Fey boy turned into a weapon of mass destruction.

But there’s no one else he could be now but Lancelot. The Weeping Monk died that night at the Paladin camp, when he fought the Trinity Guard to spare Squirrel from death. Father Carden is gone too, killed by Nimue, and Lancelot has betrayed his brothers. He could have stayed as he hadn’t known that Father was dead yet, he could have put himself at the service of Abbott Wicklow and his Guards from Rome. He could have become another faithful dog for the Church to use and abuse, and eventually discard when he grows old and feeble.

Was it really madness to run from such fate? Lancelot doesn’t think so, as he thinks about Squirrel and Gawain, and the others too. They had treated him with far more kindness than he deserved, and he will be forever grateful for that. Even if they don’t meet again, even if Lancelot dies today or tomorrow at the hands of Kaze or someone else, he’s glad that they got to live. He truly hopes they stay like that in the battles to come.

Kaze is standing above him. She has a small dagger in hand.

Lancelot is not going down without a fight, no matter if she’s a Fey. It’s all he knows how to do. He pushes himself back with the heels of his boots, but Kaze’s on him in a second, grabbing him by the rope that bounds his wrists together and yanking to bring him back closer to herself. Lancelot lets her do it, waiting for the right moment to place a kick to her side that will send her reeling back, and hopefully drop the blade gripped tight in her hand. But the moment never comes.

Kaze cuts through the rope in one swift movement. Lancelot’s arms fall to his lap as she turns his back on him, coming back shortly after with a wooden bowl of something steamy and a waterskin.

She puts the bowl and waterskin on the ground next to him. She places a hand on his forehead, feeling for a fever that judging by her satisfied face, she doesn't find. “Eat,” she commands. It’s stew with little pieces of rabbit meat and vegetables floating on the surface. Lancelot’s stomach rumbles, not knowing how many days it’s been since he last ate. He watches Kaze first, though. She’s already sitting on a log at the other side of the fire, eating the same stew from another identical bowl. She raises an eyebrow at Lancelot, and he lowers his eyes, bringing a spoonful of the hot meal to his mouth.

They finish their stew in silence. Lancelot feels better now with warm food in his belly, and more aware of his surroundings. 

“That was your work,” Kaze comments after a while. Not a question, but an affirmation.

Lancelot knows what she means by that. “Yes,” he replies.

“When I arrived, the fire was still burning bright in some places of that black field, even with a hard rain falling down.”

“The Green Flame is not common fire,” he says.

Kaze frowns at him. “Who are you?”

Lancelot knows she has never seen Fey fire before in her life, no one has. He remembers this from the book he has found at a Fey village back when he was with Father and the Paladins, many years ago. Lancelot had been no more than fifteen, eager to become a monk and please God, and begging forgiveness for the sin of being born a demon every night, kneeling in front of the Holy Cross. He couldn’t help himself when he saw the small library in the hut that had belonged to the High Priestess of the village. Old tomes, its yellowed pages thin and worn by time and the thousands of fingers that had passed them, stinking so hard of magic that Lancelot had been half-tempted to cover his nose.

He had been a bold boy before he learned Father Carden’s lessons. They were painful but very thorough, so Lancelot wouldn’t make the same mistake twice.

Reading that book had been one of those mistakes. 

When he had read the words “Ash Folk” in a neat handwriting, he had forgotten the world around him, even the screams of the people being massacred outside the hut had taken a second place. Lancelot was submerged in the pages detailing the customs of his birth people when Father came in, his face betraying nothing even as he stared at the book in Lancelot’s hands. Foolish of him to think Father had not been furious at his misbehaviour in that moment, with Paladins and Fey alike surrounding them.

That night, back at camp, Lancelot had known the consequences. The lashes to his back he had to give himself, under Father’s watchful eyes, still simmering with the quiet rage that Lancelot would learn to read well in later years.

His cloak is lying by his side, holes the size of a fist on the dark raspy material. Lancelot looks at it for a few moments before turning his head to Kaze.

“Lancelot,” he replies. “Lancelot of the Ash Folk.”

She nods at him in acknowledgment. “Earth Folk.”

“Well met.”

Kaze’s eyes harden at his words. She sighs, “I thought you were only a monk. This would be much easier if you were.”

Lancelot nods. He understands the dilemma Kaze is in now, holding another Fey as hostage. He himself had done so many times, but none of them had left the Paladin camp alive. Except Squirrel and Gawain, the Hidden going so far as to bring the latter back to life. Lancelot was the reason the knight was there in the first place and went through all of that shit, and he doesn’t think he will ever forgive himself for it, no matter how much he has redeemed himself by saving Nimue. Another stain on his soul he would never be able to erase.

Lancelot is sure Kaze knows none of this. If she had been sent by Gawain or the queen herself to retrieve Lancelot, they wouldn’t be having this conversation. He closes his eyes, quietly accepting his fate, whatever it is. He was never meant to have a happy ending, he who has made too many good people meet theirs at the end of his sword, or the tip of his arrow. No matter what pain may await for him tomorrow, he will endure it. Nothing could ever be worse than Hell, even if the fire may not burn him.

Lancelot is a curious creature, though, so he asks, “Who sent you after me?”

“The Red Spear,” Kaze smirks as she simply replies. "Get some rest, we ride early tomorrow."

She places her bedroll on the floor, her two curved swords close to herself, and turns her back on Lancelot, leaving him to ponder the name in the solitude of his head.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you once again for all your comments! They make me very very happy!!!!
> 
> Let me know what you think of this chapter, please. All feedback is welcome!
> 
> No beta read, sorry if there are any grammatical errors.

“I am called the Red Spear,” the woman says, loudly enough for everyone to hear in the hall. “I am an exile from the Ice Kingdom, and I have come to your shores for revenge against King Cumber and his daughters, who have unfairly taken everything from me. My warriors and I would have lost the battle at the beach if your people had not come to our aid, Fey Queen.”

Nimue sits on the makeshift throne, Gawain standing next to her, hand curled tight around the pommel of his sword. He watches Arthur by the Red Spear’s side, and the five Northern warriors who had accompanied them inside the city. Nimue is watching him too with a seemingly unreadable expression in her face, but her eyes are fixed on the man’s clothes. He is dressed head to toe in Northern armor, with a new greatsword strapped to his back.

“What is it that you want from us?”, Nimue asks after a long while.

“An alliance,” the Red Spear replies. “You have many enemies to kill, as do I. We can join our forces.”

“It seems my forces have already joined you,” the queen says. The Red Spear turns her head to Arthur, whispering something to him that Gawain doesn’t catch. Arthur steps forward, “I am still your man, Nimue. However you want me, I will fight for you and the Fey until my last breath. But the Red Spear and I propose an alliance that could be decisive in our wars against the Red Paladins and King Cumber’s army.”

Nimue looks at Gawain. “I need your counsel.”

Gawain doesn’t think there is much else to discuss. “We can’t hope to win if we fight separately.” The Red Spear is the only one who has showed up at their gates, and Gawain is sure she was the last. The Fey in this land that have not been killed by the Paladins are all reunited here in this burned down city, and many more have pulled up their tents outside its walls. They never had any other support from external forces.

Nimue hears his words and nods, getting to her feet. She climbs down the few steps to where the Red Spear is. The two women are of a height, but they could not look any more different in Gawain’s eyes, the Red Spear in her dark warrior clothes and the shining silver ornaments in her nose and hair. Nimue wears a green dress with little golden leaves embroidered on it, her hair done up in a way that reminds Gawain of her mother, Lenore the High Priestess.

They shake hands in the middle of the hall.

“As proof of my good will,” the Red Spear says when Nimue has gone back to sit on the throne. “I have something for you.”

“What is it?”

“The man they call the Weeping Monk.”

The words echo in the hall. No one dares to say a word. Gawain is sure he has forgotten how.  _ Lancelot,  _ he thinks, a shiver running down his spine.  _ Lancelot is alive.  _ He and Nimue exchange a look filled with confusion, and a tiny sliver of hope. Gawain feels the hot tears welling up in his eyes, but he suppresses them, swallowing the lump in his throat.

“Where is he?”, he asks, heart pounding fast in his chest.

The Red Spear gazes at him. “Nearby,” she answers.

“How do we know it’s truly him?” a voice asks from the bench against the wall. Merlin’s expression could pass as bored to someone who hasn’t known him for more than a few days, but his blue eyes are cautious, even as he bites into an apple nonchalantly.

Gawain wants to punch himself for not thinking about that. They had seen the Fey fire in the distance, through the trees. Merlin had explained to them that the High Priests and Priestesses of the Ash Folk had been its masters hundreds of years ago, but they all had been executed during the Great Purge, although not before the Paladins made them watch as their people were massacred and their villages were put to the torch. Merlin figures that Lancelot had been born to the few of those who had survived the carnage and had created a new village from the ashes of the old ones, before the Red Paladins came once again to finish the job some twenty years ago, with Father Carden in command.

“I have looked upon him with my own two eyes,” the Red Spear says. “Kaze brought him to my ship from where she found him lying on a burned field, almost dead from several arrow wounds. He told her his real name was Lancelot, but I could plainly see the dark stains on his face. The tears of the Weeping Monk.”

Gawain whispers in Nimue’s ear, “He has never told anyone his name except for us.”

“I want to see him,” Nimue tells the Red Spear.

“Queen Nimue,” Arthur calls, getting on one knee. “Grant me the honor of slaying the Weeping Monk, in the name of all those who have met death at the steel of his sword.”

_ He could kill you with his hands tied behind his back, you fool,  _ Gawain thinks. Nimue ignores Arthur’s words, addressing the Red Spear directly. “Bring the monk here.”

The Red Spear says something to two of her warriors, and they leave with a nod of their heads. They don’t have to wait long before the doors to the hall open again, and this time three men enter.

Gawain’s heart twists inside his chest. The two warriors are half-dragging, half-supporting Lancelot’s weight between them. He is shackled hands and feet with heavy iron chains, limiting his movements and not letting him keep up with the two men’s long strides. Dark blond curls that had slipped from his messy bun fall down the sides of his head, dirty and matted. When Lancelot looks up, one eye is swollen shut, the skin around his cheekbone bruised purple and yellow. There is also a fresh cut on his lip, probably from a fist, still trailing blood. His clothes are burned in some places, and his light shirt is dirty with old brown blood, but at least someone had been kind enough to drape a roughspun cloak over his shoulders. 

What finishes breaking Gawain’s heart in a thousand pieces, though, are the dark tears trailing down his cheeks, much darker than they normally are in contrast to the pallor of his skin. His eyes are the beautiful blue Gawain remembers, but they’re dull and weary.

Gawain doesn’t remember his feet moving towards him.

* * *

Lancelot’s eyes sting in the light of the hall.

He has no idea where he is. The Red Spear’s men had covered his eyes with a blindfold once again so he wouldn’t know where they were going. It had been a long trek from the ship anchored at the beach that Kaze had taken him to, to this place, walking behind a Northern woman’s horse and stumbling over rocks and roots on the way more often than not. Lancelot had never cried out, nor pleaded with his captors for respite. He has been through far more worse things, and he’s still standing on his feet.

He looks around the room, his sight blurry until it adjusts to the lights of the torches burning bright on each side of the stone walls. Lancelot has no idea where he is, yet he knows who he’s going to meet.

No sooner the Northern men shove him to the ground that Lancelot’s fall is broken by a pair of strong arms under green steel armor. When he looks up, Lancelot meets a creased brow and under it, green eyes shining bright with concern.

“Lancelot,” Gawain whispers, putting a hand to his cheek. It’s cool against Lancelot’s warm skin, but it feels heavenly. He leans into the touch.

“Gawain.” Lancelot, exhausted and hurt as he is, smiles. He releases the breath he has been holding in his lungs, probably since the night he had burned the Red Paladins alive with Fey fire. He rests his forehead on Gawain’s shoulder, feeling so many things at the same time he can’t figure out  _ what  _ they are, but the smile never leaves his face. Gawain stays there, holding him tight against himself, even under the stares of everyone present.

“What does this mean?”, a voice asks from somewhere behind them. A voice that Lancelot recognizes. He reluctantly parts with Gawain so his eye can follow it. The Red Spear looks down on them with a frown on her formidable face, her arms crossed over her chest. Arthur is by her side, face hard and knuckles turned white in his closed fist.

“Remove the chains from this man,” Nimue commands. The two warriors exchange a look with their captain, and with a nod of her head, one of them takes a pair of old rusty keys from his breeches’ pocket. Gawain helps Lancelot to his feet with extremely care not to jostle him too much, to facilitate the job.

The weight of the chains off his tired limbs is very much welcome. Lancelot stands there, unsure of what to do or say, but he sees Nimue making her way towards him until she’s in front of him.

“Lancelot,” she says. The word is not spit at himself as he would have expected from a Fey not too long ago. It’s a greeting, an acknowledgement of his presence here.

“Queen Nimue,” he replies, bowing his head slightly.

“The man you all used to know as the Weeping Monk is gone,” she announces to all the Fey and Northern people gathered inside the hall. She turns around to face Lancelot again, still speaking to the people as well as to himself, “Lancelot has saved my life at the lake, and the lives of my friends and my father when he stayed to hold the Red Paladins off so we could escape a cruel death at their hands, even if it meant his own.”

“We will never forget what the Weeping Monk and Father Carden have done to our people, the many lives that have been lost to the burning crosses of the Red Paladins. But if I have been taught something in the past few days, is that when someone proves themselves to be worthy of a second chance, we must give it to them. We must be  _ better.  _ So I will not accept a fellow Fey in chains, not anymore.” Nimue smiles in his direction, and nods. “My good people, I present you Lancelot of the Ash Folk, the last of his kind.”

“My lady,” Nimue continues after a few silent moments, walking to where the Red Spear is.

“Guinevere,” she interrupts, less brusquely than she would have done so before.

“Lady Guinevere, I am sure we will understand the reasons that have brought you here in your need for vengeance against King Cumber in due time. For now, my people need to fight for their survival, and we can only do so with your help.”

“That is the reason why I’m here. To repay the favor.”

“We will speak at length about this on the morrow,” Nimue says. She turns to Gawain, “Take Lancelot to Pym. He needs all the care and rest he can get.”

“Aye,” the knight replies. “Promise me you will rest too, Nimue.”

She nods. “Soon.”

Gawain lifts Lancelot’s chin with his fingers, to make the man look at him. Lancelot had not meant to be looking down, but he’s so tired that he couldn’t help hanging his head. “Can you walk?”, he asks in a soft tone that Lancelot has never heard coming from him. 

“Yes,” he replies. The knight throws one of Lancelot’s arms around his shoulders, and snakes one of his own around Lancelot’s waist to support him as they make their way out of the hall and towards Pym’s tent.

“She will be glad to see you,” Gawain tells him, smirking. 

Lancelot nods. “Percival?”

He doesn’t miss the way Gawain tenses beside him, before he hears the man sigh. “He has been inconsolable ever since you left us. The girls have tried to cheer him up, but he has barely said a word to any of us.”

“I want to see him,” Lancelot says. Something constricts inside his chest at hearing those words. He had thought about the boy so much during his captivity in the Red Spear’s ship. If Lancelot hadn’t stayed to fight the Paladins, they would have caught all of them and killed them without mercy. Still, he knows it had been something cruel to do to Squirrel, make him watch as Lancelot left to die. He had thought it fair to sacrifice himself for the Fey after so much harm he had caused them as the Weeping Monk, yet he hadn’t realized how much Squirrel and Gawain and Pym would suffer for it.

“I promise you that I will send for him in the morning. It’s quite late now, he must be asleep. Pym needs to see to your wounds and you need to get some rest.”

“As do you,” Lancelot tells him. “You look terrible.”

“The pot calling the kettle black,” Gawain jokes. “I will rest, but not before you do so,” he says more seriously.

Pym drops the poultices she had been putting away in a bag when she sees the two men entering her tent. Lancelot watches through the corner of his good eye as a figure runs to him, and in a second he has an armful of a girl with fiery red hair. Lancelot stays still, not knowing what to do with his hands, but then he carefully places them on her back, patting it awkwardly.

She steps away, looking up into Lancelot’s face. “I couldn’t allow myself to believe the rumours that you were here, a prisoner of the Red Spear.” She sees Lancelot’s bruised face and his bloodied clothes, and she lets out an ‘oh’.

“Pym, could you bring something for Lancelot’s wounds?” Gawain asks kindly.

“Of course!” she replies. Gawain helps Lancelot sit onto the cot, making quick work of getting him out of his tunic. Now that he’s seated, Lancelot feels sleep calling to him and he blinks heavily. He turns his head to Gawain, to distract himself until Pym comes back. He sees the man watching the scars, old and new, on his body. Lancelot should feel self-conscious about this situation, but strangely he doesn’t. He figures that the look in Gawain’s eyes helps a lot to him not feeling that way. Lancelot had missed them, their beautiful green colour and how expressive they are. They look at him like he’s something worth seeing, something worth protecting from any harm.

Lancelot hopes those same things reflect in his own eyes too.

* * *

Squirrel doesn’t know if he should cry or laugh, so he does both at the same time.

“Easy, little man,” Gawain says when he hears Lancelot hiss, the stitches pulling from how tight Squirrel hugs him. The boy leaves tears and snot on his bare shoulder from where he had been pressing his face to, but Lancelot doesn’t mind. He needs a bath anyway.

“You promised you wouldn’t leave!” Squirrel shouts in Lancelot’s face.

“I know,” he replies. “I am truly sorry about that, Percival.”

“I’m glad you’re alright, though.”

“Me too.”

Squirrel doesn’t leave Lancelot’s side as the latter breaks his fast, and the boy chatters his ear off, telling him everything that has happened in his absence. To hear him say it, Squirrel had been too upset about Lancelot’s ‘death’ to pay much attention to the events unfolding as he would have done otherwise. 

Gawain stops by the tent after Lancelot has taken a hot bath. The latter feels much better already, Pym’s poultices and his naturally fast-healing body doing an excellent job. She had given him clean clothes to wear, but he has no weapons. They all had been lost in the fire. Lancelot is not worried, though. It is strange, but he doesn’t feel something missing when he can’t feel his swords about his person. After Nimue’s speech, word had spread that the Weeping Monk was at Fey camp. However, it’s not the same as the first time around. This time, he is Lancelot of the Ash Folk, a fellow Fey. There were some who had thrown him a few dirty looks, but the vast majority of the people in the city had ignored his presence as if he were one of them already. Lancelot is sure he will feel as such, in time.

“Are you ready?” Gawain asks him. Nimue had summoned Lancelot to the hall. He looks into the knight’s face, but he doesn’t see anything amiss in those green eyes, so he lets himself trust. It’s liberating doing so, and Lancelot follows Gawain through the crowd and to the hall with such lightness in his body he could float.

The hall is cast in sunlight.

Everyone seems to be gathered here. Lancelot sees Fey and Northerners alike form a column, leaving space for him and Gawain to walk to the end of the hall where Nimue greets them with a nod of her head from her place on the throne. Pym and Squirrel are by her right side, the girl’s arm thrown around his shoulder, both of them smiling. Merlin and Morgana stand to the queen’s left, and Lady Guinevere sits on a wooden chair below the stone steps, sharpening a dagger with a whetstone, Kaze and Arthur standing behind her.

Lancelot’s skin itches from so many eyes on him, but when he turns his head to look at Gawain, the feeling passes.

“Kneel,” the knight says softly.

Lancelot frowns but does as he’s told. It is when he sees Gawain draw his sword, steel gleaming under the sunlight coming in through the tall windows, that his heart twists inside his chest, the first vestiges of panic settling deep in his stomach. Had he done something wrong? Had they finally decided that Lancelot would be better off dead? He looks around, dozens of faces solemnly watching the scene before them.

Lancelot looks up. Gawain smiles down at him, telling him silently that everything is alright. It is enough to calm his racing heart. 

Gawain presses the flat of his blade on Lancelot’s right shoulder and speaks, loud and clearly for everyone to hear the noble words, “A knight of the Fey is one with the land, as enduring as the Great River, and as true as Arawn’s bow. We are born in the dawn…”

“To pass in the twilight,” he finishes the old saying. 

“Arise, Sir Lancelot. A knight of the Fey.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments are very welcome and they help me write faster!!! 
> 
> No beta read unfortunately.

The Fey scouts find the hanging men on a cold rainy morning. 

Eight of them, all dangling from the thick branches of pine trees, staring down at them with sightless bulging eyes. Their faces have turned a dark purple color that makes a few of the scouts look away in disgust. 

But not Lancelot. 

He is used to death. He has seen men and women hang, burn and drown and bleed out hundreds of times. Some at his hands, some at the hands of his Red Brothers. Lancelot had not once flinched while doing so, nor after when he had to dispose of the bodies. Father Carden would not let him be cowered by death; they were doing God's work, he had said, putting these demons out of their misery. They might die the same as humans do, but their births would make all the difference, so no man of virtue may feel pity for them. 

Lancelot had believed every word coming out of Father's mouth. It had been an easy thing to do, the only thing he has ever known.  _ Serve, obey, pray.  _ They had been simple words, and Lancelot had believed himself to be a simple man who should have no trouble at all putting them to practice. How wrong had he been. The Weeping Monk had been everything except ordinary almost from birth, the last of the Ash Folk. A massacred people by those he had later fought and killed for, the order given by the man he had protected and served for most of his life. 

Lancelot would never make such a mistake again. 

Life is full of lessons, if you are wise enough to find them. He looks up into the faces of the hanged men and thinks what lesson there might be in them. Lancelot is under no delusions about who did this. He has done the same thing himself many times back when he was the Weeping Monk. The Red Paladins have found them much sooner than Lancelot would have liked, and this is their warning.  _ We are coming, and we are many more than you.  _

Lancelot climbs the tree as deftly as always, his body having almost healed from his time as prisoner of the Red Spear, although his ribs feel a bit sore and the fading bruise on his cheekbone still hurts when he presses a finger to it. Arthur had punched him so hard Lancelot had seen stars, asking why he had killed the blond boy who supposedly had been Arthur's squire. Lancelot hadn't had a good answer for that, only that it was war, and in war people die. Arthur had not liked the answer, so he had made Lancelot acquainted with his recently-adquired brass knuckles again, this time with a fist to his lip that had loosened one of his molars. 

The former monk crouches on the branch where the rope had been thrown around, and takes out a sharp dagger. A Tusk man stands below, holding his fellow Fey by the legs and waiting for Lancelot to cut the rope. He does in a few seconds, climbs down, and moves to the next tree to do the same with the others.

One man for each tree, four on each side of the forest road.

Gawain comes when Lancelot and the Tusk man are taking the last man down, and bring him back to lie on the wet yellow leaves next to his dead partners. The Green Knight's face is solemn as he watches the eight men for several minutes, breathing even. Five Fey, three Northern warriors. The Red Paladins know about Lady Guinevere, and they know she has joined the Fey. Worst of all, they know  _ where  _ everyone is. 

"Nimue has to know about this," Gawain says after a while. "But first we will dig graves for these brave men, so the Hidden may help them pass into the twilight."

"With all due respect, Sir Gawain, but the grave is no resting place fit for warriors of the North," says a big bald man with strange tattoos on his face and skull. "We should like to give them to the waters." 

Gawain nods once, and the three Northerners who were supposed to relieve their fellows of their posts this morning pick up the bodies in their arms, walking away to the nearby lake. When they're out of earshot, Gawain approaches Lancelot, placing a hand in his shoulder. 

"What can you tell me?", he asks softly so the others won't hear. 

"The trail is fresh, but the rain has dampened the smells. Their faces… they were hanged in the early hours of the morning. No more than ten Paladins and as many horses, judging by the footsteps they left in the mud." 

Gawain listens attentively. "Nimue has to know about this as soon as possible," he says when Lancelot is done talking. "They know we have taken the city for our shelter. They will come, and soon." 

Lancelot agrees. They will need to relocate the people, the hundreds of Fey that remain alive and those who have been wounded by the recent fights, along with all their supplies. They had been lucky to find the burned city, Gawain had told him a few days ago over supper, but luck is not likely to be on their side a second time, not with the Red Paladins and the Trinity Guard sniffing too close about them. They might strike tonight, for all they know. Father Carden had never delayed the opportunity to kill a few Fey, much less the entire  _ race _ gathered in a single place. 

But Father is gone now, and Abbott Wicklow commands the Holy Army in his stead. Granted, Lancelot doesn't know the man much, but he has surely earned his place and not for being merciful. 

"We have to call a council when we get back," Lancelot tells Gawain. "We shall set out today. If we stay here one more day, it will be our last." 

Gawain looks at him, his green eyes drooping sadly. "I got this," Lancelot gives him a small encouraging smile.

The knight nods, his hand travelling down to find Lancelot's. "Thank you, Sir Lancelot." A chill runs down his spine at hearing those words coming out of Gawain's mouth, and their hands squeeze slightly before they let go of each other, the Green Knight mounting his horse and turning around to ride back to the city. 

Lancelot's hand only stops tingling when he grabs the shovel. They have work to do.

* * *

Nimue sits at the head of the table, with Lady Guinevere to her left and Merlin to her right. Gawain, Arthur, Morgana, and Pym sit to each side. Kaze prefers to stand by the window, gazing out into the trees while listening closely to what's being said. She nods at Lancelot in greeting when he takes a seat at the far end of the table, and he returns it. 

Lancelot is present at the council by the Fey queen's request. Lady Guinevere had not been too pleased by that, and Arthur much less, but none had said a word in protest. The other Fey seated at the table, representatives of each clan, had barely looked at Lancelot's way since he arrived, their focus on Nimue. She looks tired, eyes bloodshot and face pale from the lack of sleep. Something strains inside Lancelot's chest, and he looks away. He should be feeling this guilt for what the Red Paladins have done, after he himself killed so many Fey in the past. The least he can do is bear it in silence. 

"We have lost good men today," Nimue says. "And I assure you that they will be avenged soon. But today we must decide what's best for our people, the ones still alive. The Red Paladins have found our safe haven, and it won't be long before they come for us. We shall march again, to another secure location."

"Where?" Pym asks. 

"Wherever we go, they will surely find us. But it's better than staying here to die by the thousands." 

"Not if you leave land," Lady Guinevere speaks up, one long leather-clad leg thrown over the chair's arm. 

Nimue frowns. "What do you mean?" 

"We have chanced upon an island on our voyage here," she explains. "Forests full of game, dark mountains in the distance, a lake of warm sweetwater. My warriors and I have seen all that when we anchored our ships to get provisions. Fat apples, oranges and many other kinds of fruit grow in the trees. It's quite far from these shores, I grant you, but easily accessible by ship or boat."

"Have you seen any inhabitants, my lady?" Gawain asks. The Red Spear shakes her head. 

"It might be worth considering moving to that island, at least temporarily until the war is over," Merlin says. 

A Water Folk man speaks up. "My people would be grateful to be closer to the seas."

The other Fey murmur their agreement. 

"We can take our people there, those who cannot fight," Gawain suggests. "The warriors will need to stay and meet the Paladin from behind the city walls. We can't risk going out into the battlefield, not as few as we are." 

Lancelot nods. Gawain says this last part while looking at him, his eyes searching for the former monk's support. It's not like they have any other option. The blackened stone walls are better than no walls at all.

The meeting goes on for hours, discussing strategies of battle. The Fauns, being excellent archers, will be in charge of taking out as many Red Paladins and Trinity Guards as they can from up the walls. The rest of the Fey will take turns firing boulders from the soon-to-be-built catapults, and helping the Northern warriors in the fight proper. Those who wouldn't be escorting the other Fey to the ships and sail them to this island Lady Guinevere had spoken about.

When it's finally over, Lancelot makes his way to Squirrel's tent. The boy, despite the late hour, is awake. An archery butt has been nailed to the tent's central pole. Squirrel is standing on his cot, shooting at it with masterful concentration. Three arrows have already hit the bull's eye, but several more stick out on the hard-packed earth. 

An arrow attempts to fly past Lancelot's head when he enters, and he raises a hand, catching it mid-air.

"Lancelot!" Squirrel shouts, jumping off his coat to run to the knight. The latter is already used to these demonstrations of affection from the boy, and opens his arms out of instinct.

"I believe this is yours," he says, holding out the arrow to him. "You have to be careful, Percival. It might not be me coming in next time." 

"Why do you think I'm practicing so late? So no one comes here looking for me." Squirrel looks smug. "By the way, nice catch."

Lancelot bows his head, smiling. It fades when he takes a seat beside Squirrel, and sees the conflicted look in the boy's eyes. 

"What's the matter?" Lancelot asks, his hand immediately moving to rub the boy's back comfortingly. He doesn't know where this comes from, but it's an urge that he's feeling more often than not. He doesn't stand to see Squirrel upset.

"I'm worried about tomorrow," the boy tells him. "I know the Red Paladins are coming."

Lancelot nods, not bothering to deny it. The people already know about the bodies they found in the forest this morning, as some of the men had kin back in the city and they had to be told about their untimely deaths. Word spreads fast, and more so in times of war and uncertainty. 

"Is that why you're doing this?" Lancelot waves at the bow and arrows that Squirrel had put away in the quiver, and laid against the foot of his cot. The boy nods once, looking down at his own hands, fidgeting. "I want to be of help in battle, but I know that you and Nimue and Gawain won't let me." 

Lancelot is torn. His first thought is that Squirrel is right. He wants to send the boy with the Fey going to the island, so he may be safe there, away from the bloodshed. But Lancelot also knows what he's seen back in the Paladin camp, when he himself had been fighting the Trinity Guards. They had almost killed him if it wasn't for this brave boy by his side, who had thrown a stone to the Guard's head and took up a sword. Squirrel had been willing to fight for Lancelot, and for a right cause. Many older and seasoned men had turned and ran when overwhelmed, but this boy had stayed his ground, giving Lancelot time to get back on his feet and kill his foes.

He's torn between what he wants and what he knows. Lancelot looks down into Squirrel's eyes, bright with impotent tears that he refuses to shed. Deep inside his soul, Lancelot wishes he would have had half of Squirrel's courage when he himself had been a boy, watching the Red Paladins burn his village to the ground and butchering his people. He wouldn't be what he is today, a former monk with the blood of innocents on his hands if he had been brave and stood up to Father Carden. Even if it had meant his death, he would have died fighting for a better future for himself and his own. 

How can Lancelot deny him that? 

"I can't promise the queen and Gawain will agree to this, but I'm willing to convince them of letting you stay," Lancelot tells Squirrel. The latter smiles so bright and throws his arms around Lancelot's neck once again. The knight presses a kiss to his temple, his own eyes stinging. 

"Thank you, Sir Lancelot." 

He had learned that it had been Squirrel's idea for Gawain to knight him. Lancelot hadn't known what to say when he had raised himself, but Gawain had whispered to him that he deserved it for everything he had done for them all after he deserted the Red Paladins. Lancelot had wanted to ask what about  _ before  _ that, but he hadn't had the chance and he knows that none of the Fey would give it to him. His crimes will not be forgotten, but they won't be held against him either in this new life he wants to lead, fighting for the survival of the Fey instead of their extermination.  _ That's _ the meaning of a second chance, as Nimue had said in her speech. 

"I think Gawain will forgive you," Squirrel says after a few moments in comfortable silence. 

"For what?" Lancelot doesn't want for the man to forgive him about any of the atrocities he has committed over the years, for causing his own death. Lancelot doesn't deserve Gawain's forgiveness, no matter what he's done for the Fey after that. 

"Telling him that it's alright for me to fight in the battle," the boy explains. "He might get mad at you for a while, but it's nothing to worry about." 

Lancelot frowns, and Squirrel giggles. "He likes you." 

"Well, we help each other--" 

"No," Squirrel cuts off. "He really  _ likes  _ you."

A snort bursts out of Lancelot's nose before he can suppress it, the sound foreign to his own ears. He shakes his head, "What gave you that notion, Percival?" 

"Are you blind?" is the boy's answer. "Because a blind man wouldn't have caught that arrow the way you did." 

"I'm not blind," Lancelot affirms.

"Then why haven't you seen the way Gawain looks at you _all the time?_ " Squirrel's face screams victory. "You should have seen him when we arrived here. He was grieving for you even more than me, and believe me, I cried for you  _ a lot.  _ But he didn't show it. He just stood up there on the watchtower for days and days, waiting for you to come back." 

Lancelot didn't know that. He knows that Gawain had been upset when Lancelot had decided to stay and hold the Paladins off, knowing it would mean his death. He had seen the reluctance in the man's green eyes, something tearing at him from the inside when they said farewell. Lancelot had guessed someone as good as Gawain would be sad to be witness to a sacrifice, even if the sacrifice had been someone the likes of the Weeping Monk. He had thought Gawain's sadness would fade when the burden of the battles to come became too great that he would have no time to think about Lancelot's fate. The latter had imagined that the only positive thing Gawain could feel for him was gratitude. 

"That doesn't mean he… likes me in that way" Lancelot says. 

"He does, and I think you do too."

"How would you know?" 

Squirrel thinks about it for a few moments. "I saw a couple of Sky Folk men walking hand by hand in town. They sat down on a bench to talk, and they were laughing so hard that they got a couple of funny looks from an old Faun woman. But it wasn't  _ that,  _ it was the way they were looking at each other and their faces…"

"Like what?" 

"Like there was no one else around. I didn't realize at first who they reminded me of, but then I remembered how close you and Gawain were when we went out to find Nimue. I should like to feel that way with someone when I'm older." 

Lancelot stands. "I __ think it's time for you to sleep. It's going to be a long day tomorrow," he says. 

Squirrel protests at this but it's half-heartedly, as Lancelot can tell the boy is tired. So is he, needing to sleep off the remaining ache of his wounds. He places a hand on Squirrel's head, ruffling his hair slightly, and wishing him a good night. He stays long enough to hear the words being repeated at him, and blows out the candle by his bedside before stepping out of the tent. 

Lancelot's hearing sharpens as soon as he's outside, but the night is quiet and no sound comes from the forest outside the city walls except the nocturnal animals coming out of their hiding places for a meal. Only a few people are out of their tents (almost every building had been burned down, so they had to put them up), sitting around the fires and talking quietly to each other. No one looks twice at Lancelot as he walks toward his own tent. It's dark and cold inside, but he doesn't mind. That's not what keeps him from sleeping, but Squirrel's words and the hope burning bright inside Lancelot's chest that they may be right.

* * *

They watch as the gates are opened and the people march out by the hundreds. Non-warrior women, children, and the elderly have loaded up everything they own into the back of a wayn or carriage to flee once again. Most of the horses had been left for the Fey warriors who were staying back in the city, so most of them were afoot. The injured from previous fights had been taken out of the tents and inside the lord's house where Queen Nimue had held audience, the only building left standing, which proved to have under cellars where they could rest without being put in the line of danger. 

Lancelot and Gawain are on the watchtower. Lady Guinevere is below, giving orders for her two score warriors that will escort the Fey back to the beach and into the ships, and then away to her mysterious island of apple and orange trees. 

The Red Spear is staying to fight by their side as promised, with almost all of her strength. Lancelot could have sworn at first that she would fight the Red Paladins only as a way to ensure Fey support when it's time for her to face King Cumber's army. But now that Lancelot hears her going over the plan with her warriors and how to carry it out so no Fey life lost along the way, he has his doubts. The survival of the Fey warriors is in Lady Guinevere's best interest, but she's not obliged to care about the others, those who can't fight. But she does, the worry making her stern expression soften. Lancelot is glad to know that. 

The gates finally close behind the last cart laden with provisions for the voyage, driven by an old Tusk man. Lancelot and Gawain watch silently until the procession crosses the tree line, and disappears. The city is no less quieter below; blacksmiths hammering steel into weapons, the catapults being built, and people coming and going, talking and shouting, make for a strange song but a comforting one to Lancelot. He wouldn't stand the silence, not on the eve of a battle. 

Gawain places a hand on his arm. "Come with me." 

The Green Knight leads him through the city square and towards his own tent, close to Nimue's residence in case the queen needs his assistance on some matter. Gawain explains to him as they walk that he knows Nimue since she was a little girl, but after some incident, he had taken into his own hands to stand up for Nimue against people around the village who wanted to hurt her or call her names, mainly stupid boys her own age with nothing better to do. Gawain, being older than them and a knight, would scare them off. They had grown to be very close because of that, and Gawain considers Nimue as the little sister he's never had. Lancelot listens and nods accordingly, but doesn't ask about the incident. It's not his business. 

Gawain holds up the tent's flap and motions for Lancelot to come in first. He stands there awkwardly, watching the knight's back as he walks to an oaken chest next to his cot and pulls out a large white clothing. 

When Gawain turns around, Lancelot sees it's a  _ cloak _ . The knight holds it out for him to take it. "I've been told your cloak got burned. This is one of mine own, and I would like for you to have it." 

The material feels soft and well-worn in contact with Lancelot's fingers, but the snowy white color is spotless. "Granted, it makes for poor camouflage, but I thought you would appreciate wearing one again," Gawain continues as Lancelot turns the cloak in his hands, mesmerized. 

"It's beautiful," he says. He and Gawain are almost of a height so the cloak fits perfectly, falling down his back and brushing his thighs. Lancelot fastens it about his shoulders, and looks up. 

Gawain is watching him, green eyes and green armor glittering under the candlelight. "Thank you, Gawain," Lancelot whispers. The man smiles, and nods his head. He doesn't know who takes the first step, but their feet close the distance between them. Lancelot feels himself being enveloped once again in those strong arms, Gawain's brown hair brushing against his temple and his warm cheek pressing against his. Lancelot's nose is invaded by the man's smells; pine trees, mint, and the steel of his armor. All green, all natural, all  _ right. _ Lancelot feels he could lose himself in those, and he wouldn't mind at all. 

When they part several moments after, it's reluctantly. Gawain raises a hand to Lancelot's shoulder and squeezes, "You're welcome." They're close enough to feel each other's warm breathing on their faces, for Lancelot to see the fine details of the man's features. Only a few inches apart from a pink mouth under a close cropped beard. Would it be so wrong to…? 

"Sir Gawain?", a woman calls from outside the tent. They both flinch, taking a couple of steps backwards. They look at each other for a few seconds, breathing heavily, before Gawain snaps out of it and clears his throat before he says loudly, "I'll be right there." 

Lancelot hears the woman's footsteps walking away. His eyes are fixed on the ground, blood rushing in his ears and heart racing as if he's just fought ten foes at the same time. Gawain grabs his hand and squeezes, and Lancelot looks up. 

"I have to--" Gawain cuts himself off, motioning at the tent flap. 

"Of course."

Lancelot follows him outside, and stands there, hearing Gawain murmur a sincere apology and walking away in the direction the woman went in, to attend to an urgent matter. He raises a hand to his own face, fingertips brushing his lips, tingling with the kiss that never was. A sudden wind picks up, making Lancelot's new white cloak flap behind himself as he turns around and makes his way to the noises of the city, hoping to make himself useful somewhere. Anything to distract himself from what just happened. 


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's been two weeks since my last update, but here's chapter 9!!!
> 
> comments are a great help for me, so leave lots of them please!!
> 
> no beta read, as always.

Lancelot's hands turn a deep green colour the second his skin makes contact with the lush grass. 

He closes his eyes, going back in his mind to that night when he had conjured the flames and burned his foes to ashes. He hears Merlin pacing a few steps behind him, arms folded as he watches Lancelot intently. The latter tries to concentrate, and recall anything that he might have done to channel the power, but he can only remember the pain of the several wounds he had sustained at the hands of the men he had once called his brothers, and the rage. That most of all. Rage at what they had done to his people, and what those that had escaped Lancelot's flames would do next.

Lancelot stays there, kneeling on the ground, hands feeling the cold dirt under his hands for a while, but sighs when he realizes it's no use. He's sweating already from afternoon sunshine on his back, and his head hurts from the effort of willing his newfound power to manifest. 

Lancelot grits his teeth. "Nothing’s happening.”

Merlin looks down to the patch of grass where the former monk's palms were resting moments ago, the green completely undisturbed. They are standing on a hilltop, on the outskirts of the city but still inside the stone walls. The Red Paladins are watching them day and night now, waiting for anyone to come into the forest so they can hang them. Lancelot has been a willing participant in this battle strategy in the past, and knows that they are just biding their time for fresh levies from Rome to arrive. But in the meantime, they need to occupy their time, and put some fear in their enemies for when the proper battle begins.

Lancelot had not let himself think of Gawain and whatever had happened in his tent, so he had passed the whole morning and the better part of the afternoon giving the Northerners a hand in building the trebuchets. They had looked at him warily, no doubt remembering the short time Lancelot had been their prisoner and his bad reputation hanging over him like a shadow, but after making sure he was doing a good job, they left him to it. Lancelot was grateful for it, more used to working alone from his time with the Red Paladins. They had always kept a respectful distance from the Weeping Monk, considering him more of a war asset than a brother-in-arms.

So when Merlin had come up by his side, Lancelot had thought nothing of it. Only a handful of people approach him willingly now, and the wizard is not one of them. Lancelot has seen him coming and going around the city, having words with the Fey, who are still awed by his presence. They don’t hesitate asking Merlin for his advice due to his extensive knowledge of the world, or even a story from older times when the Fey were a great and prosperous race. The man has no problem in telling them, being in his cups more often than not.

But this time Lancelot didn’t catch a whiff of the sharp smell of wine coming off the man. He had stood there until Lancelot turned his head, regarding the wizard with a raised eyebrow. Merlin had offered to teach him how to call the Green Flames at will, and then to control them. He had tried to sound non-committal, but Lancelot wasn’t fooled, the man’s blue eyes sparkling excitedly at the prospect of seeing the Ash Folk’s long lost power at close range this time. Far from being annoyed by the interest in what had worked as a mass-destruction weapon for Lancelot, he finds himself amused by the great wizard’s childish giddiness. He had put on a show of his own, agreeing to this fire-mastering class reluctantly but deep down being rather excited too. If he learns to control the Flames, it could be a great help in the foreseeable future, and perhaps even a key to win this war. He had decimated an army once, he would have no qualms in doing so once again if that guarantees the survival of the Fey, provided he doesn’t burn any of his fellows in the process.

But none of that seems possible now. Lancelot is starting to think that he doesn’t have any power at all, and what had happened that night had been some once-in-a-lifetime thing, a help sent from whatever God that had been watching down on him. But of course nothing would happen  _ now,  _ when they need it the most. Lancelot is allowed a few moments to feel sorry for himself, until Merlin asks:

“You have only been thinking about fire, yes?”

Lancelot only nods, a scowl plastered on his face. The wizard’s brow is creased in concentration, and the knight can almost see his brain working inside his skull, trying to find an answer to justify this failure. 

“Perhaps Nimue was right after all,” Merlin says eventually. His blue eyes shine at the prospect of whatever idea he’s having to actually work. When he sees Lancelot frown, he explains, “She has once told me that thinking about someone she loved helped her channel her power, when she was still in possession of the Sword.”

“I don’t have someone I love,” Lancelot says, but the words somehow don’t sound right. He thinks about his newfound friends, few as they are. Squirrel’s face comes first to his mind, only a boy but still far braver and nobler than many people Lancelot has ever known in his life. He had forsaken everything to keep Squirrel safe from the Red Paladins, losing what he had thought had been his real identity along the way, but had actually been the other way around. Lancelot is so glad he had taken that step, because he wouldn’t be here today, where he feels he truly belongs. Pym had been there for him when he had arrived at the first Fey camp, bloody and bruised and overall feeling like a dog who had been kicked and spat on for far too long. She had healed him with her quick but gentle hands, and had proved to be caring as well, asking regularly if Lancelot is alright and meaning it. Even Nimue is there in his thoughts, his respect and admiration for her growing more each day that passes.

But nothing compares to what Lancelot feels when he thinks of Gawain. And it scares him, whatever it is, because he can’t really put a name to that feeling. He had always been aware of his feelings towards the Fey, or Father, or God. Granted, he hadn’t been born to do His work, but Father had taught him that didn’t matter, as long as he knew that it was the right thing. Lancelot could redeem himself in God’s eyes and earn a place in Heaven despite being demon-born if he worked hard enough, if he repented for his sins and bound his very life to His service. Lancelot had believed Father’s words for years and lived by them, killing Fey by day and flogging himself by night, sometimes even fasting to the point of near collapse if it would earn him a bit of His grace.

But Father Carden had lost his head, and Lancelot had fled in the night to see a Fey boy delivered home safely. God, if He had been really looking down on him, would have struck him down for that yet nothing had happened. He could believe the Hidden had given him a taste of power to help him escape a certain death at the hands of the Paladin army because he had seen it and felt it, yet he had never gotten an answer from God, not even a hint that He had been listening to Lancelot’s prayers for succour when he had been at his lowest. 

Pain and misery had been the Weeping Monk’s closest friends, but not Lancelot’s. Shedding himself of that identity makes him realize that they don’t hold any sort of power over him anymore.

So when Lancelot closes his eyes, he thinks about the beautiful green eyes he had observed so closely only this morning, and the man they belong to. He cannot deny any longer the way something inside his chest warms at the thought of Gawain, becoming much more intense when he sees him. If that feeling is love, Lancelot is going to call it so.

He doesn’t realize at first that his hands start becoming hotter with every second that passes until he can’t ignore the way the light shines brightly beyond his close eyelids. 

Tendrils of orange fire are flowing out of the center of Lancelot’s palm towards the open air, flickering at first but then gaining more confidence, and as they do, they start turning a pale green colour. Lancelot turns his hands around and they follow his command, bending around his fingers, warming him from head to toe but never burning his flesh. He looks to his side where Merlin stands, the now bright green flames reflecting on his eyes, an awed smile on his face. The fire travels down to the ground, the dry grass immediately going up in tall flames before them. Merlin giggles at the sight.

The fire doesn’t seem to burn out, but there’s no wind to make it spread so they don’t get worried about accidentally burning the city to the ground. People have started coming towards them, undoubtedly having seen the flames in the distance. Fey and Northerners alike watch from the bottom of the hill as the grass sizzles, little pieces of it aflame going up into the late afternoon sky.

“You can call them back,” Merlin says after a while.

“How?”

“They obey your commands. Imagine them coming back to you and they will.”

Lancelot does so, not even needing to close his eyes. The flames start retreating towards where he is, leaving great patches of blackened earth behind them, but strangely no smoke. Lancelot holds out his palms and they creep up his fingers to vanish into his skin as quickly as they came to be, and as if they had never existed in the first place.

* * *

When Gawain enters the great hall, having been summoned by Nimue, he doesn’t expect to find the Moon Wing named Yeva there, standing by the foot of the steps leading to the throne.

The leaders of the Fey clans are there as well, along with Merlin, Morgana, Lady Guinevere and Arthur. It is no secret that the latter two are a thing now, but if Nimue is bothered by this, she doesn’t show it. Her focus is solely on the wise woman’s words.

“Cumber the Ice King and his warriors have joined the Holy Army, and are marching here as we speak,” she tells them.

“How far are they?” Nimue asks.

“No more than a day’s ride.”

The army had not come yesterday, nor the day before. They had expected this news, but still a chill runs down Gawain’s spine at the thought of going to battle so soon. By evening tomorrow, the destiny of the Fey will be decided.

“That is not all,” Yeva announces. She turns her head to lock eyes with Arthur. “Your uncle, Lord Ector of Gramaire, has been murdered by command of Uther Pendragon. He has taken the city, and plans on waiting there until the battle is done.”

Gawain looks at Arthur, who has his eyes closed and his fists clenched. Morgana purses her lips, but there’s no sadness in her dark eyes. “What has become of my Aunt Marion?” she asks.

“Lady Marion is unharmed. She has been taken hostage by the king, to ensure the city folk’s loyalty.”

Arthur visibly sags in relief at hearing this. Gawain thinks of offering his condolences when this talk is done, but judging by the siblings’ reactions about the death of Lord Ector, there was no love lost between them and their uncle. Yeva bows her head to Nimue, not before receiving the queen’s gratitude for her invaluable service, and takes her leave.

“You have my word, Arthur, when this war is over and if we’re still standing, my warriors and I will help you take Gramaire back and rescue your aunt,” Lady Guinevere tells him.

“Thank you, Gwen.”

Nimue gets on her feet. “Arthur, Morgana, I’m truly sorry to hear this grievous news. Lady Guinevere’s offer is certainly generous, and if any Fey is willing to join you in your quest instead of sailing to our new home, they are welcome to do so and we will pray to the Hidden for your success.”

Arthur smiles at Nimue, thanking her too.

“Gawain,” she continues. “Is everything ready for the battle?”

“Yes, my queen,” he replies. “We’re as ready as we’ll ever be.”

“Good. Father, was there something you wanted to say?”

Merlin steps forward. “I think you all must have heard of this by now, but I’ve been with our Sir Lancelot outside of town this afternoon, teaching him to control his new power.”

At hearing Lancelot’s name, Gawain’s heart picks up speed. Indeed, he had heard the people around the city telling each other about the bright green flames they had seen, some from a safe distance and others from close up. Gawain had been otherwise busy attending to a pressing matter that had been the reason for his sudden departure from his tent and Lancelot’s company. The memory brings a flush to Gawain’s cheeks, of what they had been close to do before being interrupted. He had seen disappointment dulling the sunlight sea colour of Lancelot’s eyes when the knight left him there outside his own tent. It had been something cruel to do, even for a good reason as is the Fey’s needs, and Gawain hopes that he might get the chance to apologize to Lancelot before it’s too late, before what tomorrow will bring.

“Has he made any progress?” Morgana asks, surprising most of the people present.

“Indeed he has,” Merlin launches into an explanation of Lancelot being a fast learner, which makes Gawain smile proudly despite himself and earns him an amused and oddly knowing look from Nimue. The wizard tells of Lancelot being certainly capable of mastering the flames well enough to be of great help during the battle without something like what had happened the day of Nimue’s rescue ever repeating itself. Gawain can see it’s a relief for everyone, knowing that the fire of the Ash Folk can be counted on to defeat the Red Paladins once and for all, and bring a halt to all the suffering the Fey have endured at their hands.

“You may leave, my friends,” Nimue says after Merlin is done with his tale. “Rest well, for tomorrow will be a long day for all of us. We have a battle to win, and it will be done if we are all of one mind.” Everyone nods their agreement, bowing their hands to the queen before making their way for the doors, Morgana hugging her tightly and Merlin kissing her cheeks and wishing her a good night. Gawain turns to leave as well, but Nimue’s voice calling his name stops him in his tracks.

“Come join me,” she says, sitting on the stone steps. When Gawain does the same, she murmurs something in a strange language and claps her hands, a flagon of wine and two metal cups materializing on the floor in front of them. Gawain raises an eyebrow and she shrugs, “spending time with Merlin gets you to learn these kinds of tricks.”

“I should have known,” Gawain replies, smiling.

Nimue takes the flagon in hand, and starts pouring the wine into the cups before he can offer to do so. She raises hers, not really toasting anything in particular, and Gawain imitates her, the clinking of the cups echoing in the empty hall. The wine is average, but welcome after the long and exhausting day they’ve had.

They drink in comfortable silence, each lost in their own thoughts. Eventually, Nimue says, “I hope we get to do this again sometime.”

Gawain knows why she says this all too well. The uncertainty of surviving a battle is something he’s familiar with from all his years as a knight, fighting people as the Red Paladins and whoever else has threatened to do the Fey any harm. But this is Nimue’s first great battle, not as a common Sky Folk girl but as a  _ queen,  _ someone who will be out there in the thick of the fight, setting an example for her people.

Gawain decides to be honest. “Whatever happens tomorrow, our hearts can rest easy knowing we have done the right thing. If we do survive, I promise you that we will throw a feast when we get to this island, and we’ll drink ourselves blind. But passing into the twilight fighting for the survival of our people is a fate we should be proud of.”

Nimue gives him a side smile. “I like how the first part sounds, but the second makes sense too.” She takes another sip of her wine. “I had thought seeing Arthur with Gwen would make me feel jealous,” she says after a while.

Gawain nods at her words, not really knowing what to say. He has never been the sort of man who’s understanding of the matters of the heart. His own feelings are an enigma to himself, let alone someone else’s. He thinks of Lancelot in his tent, the white cloak Gawain had given him bringing out the deep blue colour of the man’s eyes, his mouth so close to his own when they had been about to…

He shakes his head to make that image disappear from his mind. “What did you feel?” he asks Nimue.

“Nothing,” she replies. “Is that strange? I like him, but I guess not in the way I had once thought. I’m glad he has someone who can love him, though. Gwen is a good woman, beautiful and fearless.”

Less than a cup of wine, and Nimue’s tongue is already loosened. He shouldn’t let her drink any more, so he grabs the flagon by the handle and moves it to his side, safely away from her hands and any intention she might have of pouring more liquid into her own cup. She doesn’t notice this action, although she has her head turned to the side to face him.

“What about you?” she asks, expectantly.

Gawain frowns. “What about me?” 

“ _ Come on,”  _ she deadpans, as if there’s something Gawain is trying to avoid speaking of. 

“I think you should retire to bed, my queen, you seem to have drunk more than your share.”

Nimue laughs. “I’m quite sober, Sir Gawain,” her words don’t sound slurred, so he guesses that might count for something. “I just want to know what’s going on between you and Lancelot.”

Gawain closes his eyes, suppressing a groan and almost not managing it. “There’s nothing going on between Lancelot and me.”

“I know you,” she says, more serious this time. “And I know the look in your eyes when he’s close.”

He really doesn’t want to do this, not with Nimue who’s practically the little sister he’s never had, but he can’t deny it either. It would be easy to stand and take his leave, feigning tiredness, but he’s more awake than ever. Gawain finds he doesn’t want to run from his feelings, not anymore. He has to get this out of his chest.

“We almost kissed today,” he admits, but the words come out like a murmur. Nimue seems to understand them just fine, though. She lets out an ‘oh’, but doesn’t sound surprised at all.

“We were interrupted, though. But it’s fine, I don’t think it would have happened anyway.”

“Why would you think that?” she asks, confusion etched in her face. “It seems to me the kiss was well under way.”

“I-- Lancelot-- he--” Gawain stammers. He doesn’t remember doing so ever in his life. He closes his eyes, trying to collect his thoughts to form a decent sentence. “I don’t think he likes me  _ that  _ way .”

Nimue looks up to the stone ceiling, “Hidden save me, men are  _ such fools. _ ”

“Pardon me?”

“Of course he likes you, Gawain. Much more than that, he  _ wants _ you. Squirrel came to me saying he had talked to Lancelot about this, and asking me to do the same with you. He’s convinced Lancelot feels something for you, but he doesn’t know what or how to express it in words. And Pym asked me today while we were having lunch if you two were together already, and when I said no, she rolled her eyes and said that if she had to witness any more longing stares she would start avoiding you completely until any of you do something about it.”

Gawain cannot believe that, surely they must be mistaken or seen something that wasn’t there. But if not one but  _ three  _ people think the same thing… he’s at odds with what he wants, and what his mind can’t bring itself to hope for. Which all in all, is the same thing.  _ Lancelot. _

“He might be angry at me,” Gawain tells her. “I had to leave him without a chance to say something.”

“He will understand if you explain it to him.”

Gawain is still feeling unsure until Nimue puts a hand on his arm, giving him a light shove to prompt him into getting to his feet. “Go on, I don’t want you to regret not doing this tomorrow. Go to him, tell him how you feel.”  _ This might be your last night _ goes unsaid, but Gawain hears it anyway.

A candle is burning inside Lancelot’s tent, filtering through the dark grey flaps that have blown a few inches open, probably due to the night wind picking up. It’s quite late, everyone either asleep in their own tents or well away, having a drink with friends or doing some more private things in the quietness of the night.

Gawain peeks through the flaps, his eyes finding Lancelot’s form lying on his cot, a book in hand. The great tome looks ancient, its pages yellowed and thin, but Gawain recognizes it. A history book of the Fey clans, from first to last. Lancelot’s lips move as he reads, words coming out in hushed whispers, and Gawain struggles to catch what he’s saying for a little while until he hears ‘Ash Folk’. He smiles, feeling almost sorry for intruding.

Lancelot looks up at hearing Gawain call his name, not nearly jumping out of his skin as the latter had feared he would. His senses are still sharp, even when he’s distracted. Gawain is relieved to know.

Lancelot is wearing black head to toe, but he seems comfortable in his clothes, a bit light-dressed judging by the nightly weather but he doesn’t seem to be cold. Gawain sees the white cloak that had once belonged to himself draped neatly on a chair on the corner of the tent, Lancelot no doubt having been careful of not letting the ends of it brush the hard-packed earth. 

“Is there something amiss?” Lancelot asks, his face not betraying anything he might be feeling, but his voice is tinged with a bit of nervousness at whatever brings Gawain to his tent.

“No,” the knight replies.

Lancelot frowns. “Alright?”

“Lancelot, I--” Gawain bites on his tongue. He hopes this struggling with words doesn’t become a habit. “I wanted to apologize about what happened this morning.”

“No need,” the man says, lowering his head but Gawain sees his cheeks tinted with red. “I should apologize to  _ you  _ for having been so improper. You have my word, nothing of the sort will happen again. I thank you for giving me a cloak--”

“Lancelot,” he cuts off. When the man looks up, Gawain continues, “I was trying to apologize for leaving so suddenly without saying a word to you. I thought you might be mad at me for that.”

“I don’t doubt it was something important that required your presence,” he says. “I would never resent you over putting the people first.”

Gawain nods, relief coursing warm through his body. “Good.” He steps forward. “Regarding what you were talking about, there is nothing to apologize for.”

“We almost…” Lancelot starts, but bites on his lip to avoid saying the next word.

“Yes,” he confirms. “Was it something you wanted to do?”

Lancelot looks conflicted. Gawain can only guess the dilemma he must be facing, if the answer is positive. What his heart wants opposed to what his mind thinks of the act. Gawain might be Fey, but he’s not ignorant about the teachings of the Church and the expectations they have regarding the morality of its brethren.

Gawain tries to put on a reassuring face, something that might prompt Lancelot to be honest with him about his wishes. He must have been convincing, because the man in front of him nods. Slightly and slowly, not quite meeting Gawain’s eyes. As if afraid the latter will judge him, or maybe God.

He clenches his teeth, something squeezing painfully in his chest. He breaches the gap between them, careful not to spook Lancelot by being too rash. Gawain is almost of a height with him, yet he has to lean his head to meet Lancelot’s eyes, facing to the side at the ground.

“Look at me, Lancelot,” he says, his voice sounding more as a suggestion than a request. The man does, and not for the first time tonight Gawain finds himself at a loss for words. Unshed tears shine silver under the dim light of the candle. One of them spills inevitably, running down the length of the dark ones on his cheeks to land on Lancelot’s shirt, losing itself in the black and well-worn fabric.

“It’s a sin,” the man whispers, and if Gawain had been as far as he had only a few seconds ago, he might have missed those words. Anger flares hot inside the latter’s body, unbidden. Not at Lancelot, of course, but at the people who have taught him that there’s something sinful about wanting another man, or whomever the Church might frown upon. The Fey had no such belief, so Gawain had always known that the desire he had felt for other men in the past was nothing to be ashamed of, nothing  _ unnatural.  _ Now he realizes how fortunate he has been.

He takes Lancelot’s hand in his, entwining their fingers. “You are allowed to feel whatever you feel, you hear me? There’s nothing wrong about any of this.”

“How can you be so sure?” Lancelot asks, his voice more hoarse than usual with emotion.

“You have done many things for the Fey, the very people that the Church has taught you they were monsters and needed to be killed. You went against all your teachings, all that gave your life purpose, to save a Fey boy. You have not been punished by God for that, have you?”

Lancelot shakes his head, and Gawain smiles. “You can trust me on this, loving who you love is no sin. If you want to still keep your God, you need to keep only the good teachings. I promise you, Lancelot, that nothing bad will come out of this. I want to show you, if you let me.”

The feel of warm lips against his is all the answer Gawain needs.

He tastes salt from Lancelot’s previous tears, but he doesn’t mind. The kiss is shy, their lips only touching, feeling themselves against the other’s. When Gawain runs his tongue along Lancelot’s bottom lip, the latter parts them, letting him in. Gawain thinks there’s a real chance he might go mad in this very moment, tasting the inside of Lancelot’s mouth, so hot and so  _ real _ . Their tongues dance, gasps and moans coming out that Gawain can’t tell who they belong to nor does he care too much.

Gawain lets go of Lancelot’s mouth to kiss a trail down the man’s stubbly jaw. When he reaches the pale neck, he presses a kiss on the throbbing vein there and inhales Lancelot's scent, the lingering earthy smell from having been outdoors all day and the sweet one from the soap of his bath.

They step away, but this time it’s not because of being interrupted by some other urgent matter but to take off their bothersome clothes. Gawain takes longer because of the armour he’s still wearing, so Lancelot gives him a hand in unbuckling the straps. When that’s done, he leaves it on the ground, turning his body around. 

The scars on Lancelot’s body have the same reaction on Gawain as the first day he saw them. The suffering he’s enduring throughout most of his life is marred on his skin forever. If anything, they make Lancelot even more beautiful in Gawain’s eyes.

He touches wherever he’s permitted, and that is  _ everywhere.  _ Lancelot does his part too, shyly at first, wary of crossing some unspoken limit that Gawain really doesn’t have, but then growing confident with his kisses and caresses. A long while passes flying doing this, just exploring the other’s body.

“Tell me what you want, Lancelot,” Gawain says, pressing a kiss to the juncture of his neck and shoulder. Lancelot shudders under him, “you,” he replies.

This might be their last night on Earth, yet Gawain is afraid to take it too far. He’s not going to ask, but he guesses (probably correctly) that Lancelot has never been with anyone in bed before.

He could try the next best thing.

Gawain’s hand hovers above Lancelot’s navel, looking up to await the permission he’s seeking. “May I?”

“Yes.”

He takes Lancelot’s length in his hand, pumping it to make it harden completely. Gawain minds his teeth as he takes it in his mouth, lowering his head. Lancelot gasps above him, his hand flying to Gawain’s brown locks, but not pushing down. The few remaining inches that Gawain can’t fit in his mouth without making his gag reflex manifest itself, he fists in his hand, pumping at the rhythm of his bobbing head. When he sucks on the cockhead, Lancelot moans Gawain’s name, thighs trembling around him. 

Gawain jerks himself off as he gives head, coming undone almost at the same time that Lancelot taps on his shoulder, trying to warn him of his release. Gawain wants to feel all of him, even this, so he doesn’t pull the cock out of his mouth. Lancelot lets out a final moan before he comes, his seed hitting the back of Gawain’s throat. When he looks up, it’s to the sight of Lancelot lying with his head on the pillow, some hairs that escaped his bun plastered to his face with sweat, and a pleased little smile on his face

Gawain smiles too, knees stiff as he stands to get the first thing he sees on the floor, his own undershirt, and cleans his mouth and hands from the mess of himself.

Lancelot holds up his blanket when Gawain makes his way to the cot, too small for two grown men to put some comfortable inches between their bodies, but they don’t feel the need to do so. They are face to face, impossibly close, and Gawain raises a hand to tuck a rebel little curl behind Lancelot’s ear. 

“Do you believe me now?”

“Yes.”

“Good.”

They stay quiet for a few moments, just hearing each other’s breathing. The candle had burned out not too long ago.

“The book you were reading,” Gawain starts, quietly in case Lancelot fell asleep already. But the latter opens his eyes to look at him, blue shining bright even in the darkness.

“I had read a copy of it once, when I was younger,” he explains, stifling a yawn with his hand. “When Father Carden found me with it, though, well… he was displeased.”

Gawain hadn’t known why he had thought of asking after the book, but now he knows. If he can erase one bad memory of it from Lancelot’s mind, that would be a good start. “Perhaps you can tell me more about the history of the Ash Folk some day.”

He hears more than sees Lancelot’s smile. “Alright.”

“Alright,” he echoes. “Now get some rest, Lancelot.”

“You will be here in the morning, right?” 

“Of course.”  _ Where else would I want to be?  _ he wonders.

Lancelot nods, making the pillowcase under his head make a ruffling sound. “Goodnight, Gawain.”

“Goodnight, Lancelot.” He closes his eyes too, feeling truly happy. The calm before the storm.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The battle is here! I hope you enjoy this chapter as much I enjoyed writing it!
> 
> TW: Explicit scenes of violence, blood, and death.
> 
> We're close to the end of this fic, I can't believe it. Comment what you think of this chapter, and know that I appreciate them all beyond words!
> 
> No beta read.

The two armies meet under the fading light of day, the orange sun setting on the west shining off the armor and steel of the enemy’s swords, and making the sparse clouds above seem on fire. To the east, night creeps in, distant stars beginning to dot the cobalt blue sky.

As Lancelot had anticipated, Trinity Guards and Red Paladins don’t mix. He feels calmer than he would have thought, looking at the latter from the hilltop. Lancelot has ridden with these men for almost all of his life, knows their strengths and weaknesses. They are ruthless bastards when they can be, yes, but they’re also undisciplined. Father Carden had often complained about that to Lancelot, back when he was still the Weeping Monk and attached to his side like a leech. In later years, orders had come from Rome to increase the numbers of Red Paladins to carry out God’s will of destroying Fey villages, and burning non-believers in the cross, as new sinners sprouted like mushrooms after a storm all over the realm and some of the Paladin factions couldn’t meet the demands.

It had sometimes fallen on Lancelot himself to recruit men for their cause, and when no seasoned soldier or common man at least a bit trained in the sword had shown up eager to put himself in the service of the Lord, the Weeping Monk had to make do with what he could get. Which was more often than not, as the realm had to make use for fighting men elsewhere. Lancelot and a group of recruiters had patrolled towns, cities, ports and even the countryside in search of would-be Paladins, and when willing ones were hard to find, he’d had to resort to bribery in order to not come back to Father empty-handed. A promise of three meals and a safe place to sleep often did the trick for those wretched men he would find in backwater alleys or wandering the roads, and for the ones who were barely more than boys, the fear of God’s wrath had been enough for them to accept meekly.

But that made the majority of them inexperienced at best, although their great numbers and crimson robes might say the opposite. Lancelot should know, he had tried to train some that he had judged would make for passable fighters in time, and the others he had sent to do the chores that come with being in a camp with hundreds of other people, like cooking, cleaning and washing clothes in a tub.

Even so, Lancelot guesses that Abbott Wicklow couldn’t have improved the former’s lacking fighting skills in such a short time since Father Carden’s death. Lancelot had burned hundreds of them at the field the night his power had awakened from its twenty-something years of slumber, yet some two hundred more remain. They wear iron and bronze plate under the robes, he knows, but it’s cheap and dents easily from a well-dealt blow. The ones mounted on warhorses may carry some better armor, but they are the minority, one for every ten afoot. Some have swords in one hand, and shields in the other, but most of them don’t. Lancelot spies maces, hammers, morningstars. The archers form the last of their lines, the better to send their flaming arrows flying up into the sky to land on the foe across the field.

The Trinity Guard, on the other hand…

Being soldiers bred and trained in Rome who fear no man or beast, they make for a nice and collected formation, looking like statues carved of onyx from a distance. Except for their golden masks, who catch the light of the sunset and make the features seem even more twisted. Some have swords, the ones who form the first line have lances with sharp steel points, yet every one of them has a shield stripped to their arm. Gold enameled shields with big black and grey crosses painted on them. Not the wooden ones of the Paladins, the red paint chipped from previous fights.

They will be the real problem tonight, Lancelot decides, especially when he sees the lines breaking apart to let two mounted Guards trot out towards them. Abbott Wicklow, at the head of the Red Paladins, says something to the man beside him and they both spur their horses into motion to follow the riders at a prudent distance.

The Fey army has gained the high ground, at least. They watch the three men stop in the middle of the field, awaiting for any one of the Fey to meet them there. A parley, Lancelot realizes, his brow creasing. He senses a trap here; he doesn’t recall the Red Paladins ever wanting to parley with their enemies, when they can attack with all their strength, the sooner to end the battle and kill as many Fey as they can before moving on.

He tells so to Queen Nimue. He’s mounted on Goliath to her left, his white cloak gently snapping with the night breeze coming from the north. Gawain, as the queen’s sworn protector, stands to her right with Merlin beside him.

Nimue considers Lancelot’s words, looking down into the distance to the three dark figures, Abbott Wicklow’s man carrying a torch. She’s trying to think what might be the best course of action, he knows, but time is running out. If this is not a trap, Lancelot is certain the men will not wait all night for them to send someone out to hear their words. They will charge, nevermind whatever that could have been said.

“My queen, let me go in your stead,” Gawain pleads. “I will hear what these men have to say, and come back to you with their words.”

“What if this is truly a trap, and they kill you when you turn your back? I will not risk you, Gawain, not again. Not over something as foolish as this parley.”

Merlin clears his throat. “A parley is not something foolish, daughter. Foolish are they for bringing an army to our doors, and expecting us to hear them boasting of how they will vanquish us all on this fine night.”

“They won’t,” Nimue replies after a moment, determination shining like flames in her eyes. She gives her horse a soft kick on the side, and runs down the hill. Lancelot and Gawain spare only one second to exchange a look before they do the same, with Merlin muttering a curse and following on their heels. 

Abbott Wicklow’s smile is a cold thin line as he sees Lancelot approach.

“It seems the Weeping Monk has traded his dark cloak for a white one,” the man says in that calm tone of his. “Whatever colour you choose to wear, it will not disguise the marks of the Devil on your face. The marks of a monster.”

Lancelot doesn’t reply. The words are a way to intimidate him into submission, he knows, and once not too long ago they would have made Lancelot reconsider his newfound place among the Fey, but not anymore. Whatever Abbott Wicklow may tell him now, it will be nothing the knight hasn’t told himself many times in his despair before finally accepting what he truly is, and the role he’s meant to play in this war.

“I will not suffer you talking like that about my brother. Say what you came to say, Abbott, and let us be done with this once and for all,” Nimue’s voice is sharp in anger, and when Lancelot glances sideways at her, he sees the fine light-green tendrils of vines creeping up her cheeks. 

“I have nothing more to say than this: let your companions throw down their weapons, and kneel to us, Wolf-Blood Witch. We will spare them, and your other demons waiting at the hilltop, in exchange for your life. It is a fair bargain, don’t you think? You will accompany the Trinity Guards and myself back to Rome, where we will burn you at the stake for your crimes. If you truly care about the Fey, you will know what the wisest move is.”

The seconds tickle by as the silence grows heavy around them. A silence that tells Lancelot that the queen is considering the terms laid out in front of her, even if they all know them for the lies they are. Lancelot thinks back to the people they had left in the city. Yeva the Moon Wing had warned them of King Cumber’s army marching towards it, raiding whatever village and town they could find along the way. The destination of the other two armies made of God’s men were the ample fields a few miles south, where they would want to meet the Fey in open battle.

Lancelot had left Squirrel in the hands of Kaze, who would be commanding the archers on the watchtower. The city would be defended by some of the Fey who had chosen to stay, and Lady Gwen’s warriors. If it were up to the boy, he would have joined the battle against the Red Paladins, being a knight and all, but Lancelot had forbidden it. Squirrel had protested at that until Gawain came and assured him that his quite impressive skills with a bow would be needed in the city, stopping the Northern King and his warriors from storming the gates. He had looked unconvinced until Lancelot had mentioned the name of Blanchefleur, the Water Folk girl of Squirrel’s age who the latter had taken a liking to when they were training together and couldn’t stop talking about until Lancelot thought he would go deaf. He had only needed to remind Squirrel that a knight has to be brave and protect the people,  _ especially  _ the women and children, and that had been the end of it.

“My life for the lives of my people,” Nimue says, more to herself than to her enemies watching closely for her reaction.

“Nimue…” Gawain starts, but she raises a hand. “There is nothing that guarantees me that you will not take up arms against the Fey if I submit to you,” she tells Abbott Wicklow. “The Church has been hunting our people and burning them at the stake long before I was ever born, and my father here can testify the truth of that.” She motions to Merlin by her side. “My death would not make a difference whatsoever. We will put an end to this tonight, Abbott Wicklow. If my people should die fighting for the right to live in a world where they should be free to be who and what they are, their deaths would not have been in vain.”

Abbott Wicklow raises an eyebrow at this and shakes his head in a faux sad gesture. “Oh, child, you will come to dearly regret saying those words, on your way to Rome and the Lord’s justice. Sister, if you may remove your mask.”

One of the two Trinity Guards who had come to this parley along with Abbott Wicklow and his bodyguard, raises a hand to their head, lowering the dark hood and unbuckling the strap holding the mask tight to their face. Lancelot watches in confusion as a face of a girl no older than fifteen appears behind the gilded steel. The right side of her face is covered with burns, and the light of the torch glimmers on a strand of her mousy brown hair that has turned white. It takes Lancelot a moment to recognize who she is, dressed in a Trinity Guard’s garment and not the nun’s robes from the time he had briefly seen her at the Abbey.

_ “Iris?”  _ Nimue’s face is a mixture between disbelief and horror. Merlin, however, spits a “you” at the girl with all the loathing Lancelot had never thought he would hear coming from such a genial yet extravagant man.

“It is me,” Sister Iris confirms, a haughty look on her face. “His High Holiness himself has named me a Trinity Guard, and I have come here to finish the task that I have started that day on the bridge. I will hear you die screaming, witch, but not before you suffer for your sins.”

_ The day on the bridge _ . Sister Iris had been the one who had almost killed Nimue, before Lancelot had taken off with Gawain and Pym and the rest to look for her. One glance at Gawain tells Lancelot that Nimue had told him about it, the Green Knight looking furious at hearing the words coming out of that small girl’s mouth. 

“Although I think some gratitude is in order,” the nun-turned-guard continues, her head turning to face Merlin. “You have given me a precious gift after all, wizard.” Iris holds out her hands, and they all watch as a bolt of blinding lighting shoots from her palms. The bolt lands on the earth in front of Nimue’s horse, and the white beast rears back until the queen gains control of the reins. Iris only smiles slyly.

“The power of God, who has created lightning and thunder, is within our dear Sister Iris,” Abbott Wicklow tells them. “And believe me, the Lord will have the demon blood He is due.”

“We shall see,” Nimue says, turning around and heading back for the hill. Merlin follows her, and Lancelot and Gawain do the same, galloping close behind in case Sister Iris or anyone may try to kill the queen or the wizard while their backs are turned, but Lancelot hears the four pairs of hooves retreating back to the ranks of Holy men ready for battle.

Nimue reins her horse at the base of the hill, and commands the Fey on top to sound the horn of war. The sound splits the air, bouncing off the trees surrounding the field, stretching for miles. The Red Paladins reply with a horn of their own, signalling the brothers for the impending attack. Lancelot’s heart hammers inside his chest as he takes his sword out of its sheath, the blade gleaming silver and sharp under the light of the torches some of the Fey are carrying. The pommel no longer bears the Holy cross, but there had been no time to design a symbol of his own.

Lancelot glances to Gawain, on the other side of the queen. Memories of the night they had shared flash through the former monk’s mind. It could have very well been their last, Lancelot knows. He had never been bothered by the thought of dying before, knowing there were certainly worse things in this cruel world. The Weeping Monk had been raised to serve God, and die by His will when his time came. He had never thought anything else, having no family of his own who could have mourned him. His family had been massacred by the orders of the man Lancelot would later come to trust blindly, and think of as the closest thing to a Father a wretched demon like him could ever hope to have.

Father Carden is gone, but the Weeping Monk has endured. He had become Lancelot, or perhaps he had unearthed Lancelot from the grave where he had buried him when he had been but a child willing to survive whatever life would throw at him, and had taken his place. This Lancelot, a knight, has a family who would mourn him if he dies tonight. He has people he loves, people he has sworn to protect until the last moment his heart beats inside his chest. And Lancelot will not fail them.

Lancelot and Gawain look at each other in the eye, and nod their heads. A final farewell if one of them goes down tonight, but most of all, a way to tell the other  _ we’re doing this together. _

Nimue raises a fist, and the Fey form behind her from the heights. Lancelot tightens the grip on his sword, his other hand running down Goliath’s neck.

The fist lowers, and the Fey and Northern warriors race down the hill, shouting battle cries in three different tongues. 

Lancelot sees the flaming arrows take flight from both sides, crisscrossing under the night sky. The screams of those who are unlucky enough to get caught by one are drowned out by the sounds of steel crashing against steel as the fighters meet. Goliath is accustomed to the clangor and the blood from the many battles he and Lancelot have been in, so the big black horse doesn’t shy away when a Paladin gallops to them, mace in hand. Lancelot makes a quick work of killing him, burying his sword in the man’s bowels before the latter can swing the weapon for Lancelot’s head.

He has been raised to be a fighter, no one can doubt it, much less Lancelot himself. He loses himself in the battle, forgetting his surroundings for a while as he slashes at any red shape that catches his eye. Killing his enemies has always been second nature to him, and he proves the truth of that, viciously so. The ones Lancelot cannot touch with his sword, he lets Goliath trample them under his hooves.

Before long, Lancelot’s face is splattered with blood, and the hot scarlet liquid drips from the edge of his sword to vanish on the grass below. The black pieces of armor that the Fey smith had put together for him are slick, his right arm soaked all the way past his elbow. The cloak flapping from his shoulders, the one who used to be beautifully snow white, is only so in some places. But nothing of this is of consequence for Lancelot in the midst of the carnage, knowing that one less Paladin breathing is balancing the scales of all those Fey who have ceased to breathe at their hands. It’s the only thing Lancelot can do to make it right.

He is so engrossed in this that he hears the shout a second too late. The man wouldn’t have seemed to come out of nowhere if Lancelot had been paying attention, but he hasn’t. He only sees the red blur running at all speed from one side, jumping a few feet away from colliding with Goliath, and putting all his weight behind his shoulder.

The impact on the ground takes all the air out of Lancelot’s lungs, as does the man falling on top of him. The Paladin recovers fast enough, twisting his body to straddle Lancelot’s waist and grabbing him by the throat with one hand while taking out a dagger from the sheath in his belt with the other. Lancelot’s hand closes around the man’s wrist, the gleaming blue point stopping a few inches away from his face. The hand around his throat tightens, and the blessed air stops coming altogether, making his chest constrict. The man is stronger than he seems, the face above him contorted with rage, spittle running down the prominent chin as the shadows of the flames dance on it.

The  _ green  _ flames.

The scream pierces through the night, even amidst the hundreds of different sounds the battle brings.. The hand releases Lancelot’s throat to cradle its burning sister, making it worse judging by the man’s pained features. Lancelot doesn’t even need to push him off himself, the man slithering on the ground away from him as he screams and sobs at the same time. The dagger lies forgotten to one side, so Lancelot snatches it up, his own sword lost somewhere along with Goliath. He’s panting raggedly as he grabs the man by the feet and drags him close to himself, plunging the blade on the back once, twice, thrice on the red-robed back. Lancelot doesn’t stay to watch the body twitch for all but two seconds before going still.

When he turns around, all he sees is chaos.

The corpses of Fey and Northerners and Red Paladins alike are strewn all around, the crows cawing and circling above waiting for the madness to pass so they can feast on the flesh. Those who  _ are  _ dying take a longer time, the stench of blood and piss and shit is clogging and sharp on Lancelot’s nostrils. The moans of the suffering are bone-chilling and pitiful. Lancelot snatches a sword sticking out of the earth beside the dead body of a Paladin staring sightless up to the starry sky.

The battle is not over yet. Lancelot is not sure how much time has passed, but it could be anywhere from two minutes to two hours. He walks among the corpses, careful not to step on any. He doesn’t dare to look at the faces of the Fey, however, for fear of finding a familiar one.

A Paladin stumbles past Lancelot, blood running in a river down the fresh stump where his arm used to be. An arrow piercing his throat puts him out of his misery, but when Lancelot turns to see who shot it, nobody is there anymore. A Water Folk woman cradles the body of a loved one, rocking back and forth on his knees. Lancelot can only cut down the man who tries to shove his sword through her shoulder blades, but if she notices, she doesn’t show it. Lancelot walks away before the urge to tell her to get up and keep fighting overtakes him.

Someone grabs him by the ankle. Lancelot has his sword raised in a second, to hack the Paladin’s hand off, but when he looks down he sees a Tusk boy he had thought dead blinking tiredly up at him. Blood trails out of his mouth and down his cheek, and when Lancelot lowers his gaze, the arrow plunged deep into his chest almost up to the feathers is the only explanation he needs.

“Sir Lancelot,” the man whispers wetly.

Lancelot goes to his knees by his side, remembering the woman from just moments before. He can’t leave the boy alone, not like this. He’s young, twenty if he’s a day, but there is nothing the knight can do to save his life, and that realization is enough to bring tears to Lancelot’s eyes. He refuses to shed them as he holds the boy’s hand in his. He knows needs to be done, the only thing, yet something stops him.

The boy tries to speak, and Lancelot sees his teeth stained red in the dim light. “The island… take my body to the island…”

“I will,” Lancelot vows, and the boy visibly sags in relief. He thinks of Squirrel back in the city, and something squeezes in his chest. He can’t conceive the thought of something bad having happened to him, or he will go mad right here and now.

“Born in the dawn...” The light has started to fade out of the Tusk boy’s eyes.

“To pass in the twilight,” Lancelot finishes as he brings the point of his sword down to pierce the heart.

He hears the tinkling sound from behind his back as a flash of gold appears to his left, where Lancelot sees Nimue and Merlin fight back to back with five Paladins surrounding them. Lancelot is on his feet in an instant, but when he reaches them, he doesn’t use his sword to fight the attackers. Instead he throws it to the ground as he feels the fire run hot through the veins of his arms, and out of his palms with the force of a stampede. The Green Flames coil themselves around the Paladins’ necks and cleave their heads off in a second with a sizzling sound. The five bodies drop to the ground with a noisy  _ thud. _

Nimue stares at him wide eyed, and Merlin grins. “You’ll have to teach me that trick some other time.”

Lancelot nods in reply. “Where is Gawain?”

“We lost him a while ago,” Nimue answers.

“Oh no, he’s not lost to us yet,” Merlin says, pointing at something behind Lancelot.

Gawain is engaged in a fight with two Paladins not so far away, slitting the throat of one of them as Lancelot’s eyes find him. Even with a silver-spiked morningstar swinging menacingly close to the Green Knight, the Paladin is no match for him. The two weapons clash noisily as Lancelot sprints to them, but before he gets there, Gawain has interred his sword deep into the man’s bowels, letting the lifeless body fall into the mud with a wet splash.

Gawain smiles when he sees Lancelot, Nimue, and Merlin coming towards him, and in a second he has his arms around the former. They both smell of sweat, blood and dirt, but Lancelot is so relieved they’re still alive that he doesn’t mind the stink not for one bit.

“Are you alright?” Gawain asks in his ear.

“Yes.” Now that he has stopped fighting for a little while, Lancelot notices he’s bleeding from several cuts, but they’re nothing to worry about. He presses a kiss to Gawain’s forehead despite the company around them, just because he’s alive and he can do it.

The sound of the horn resonates deafeningly across the field.

It’s not one of theirs, Lancelot knows this immediately. Fey, Northerner or Red Paladin, the ones who are still fighting at this point stop doing so to figure out where the sound came from. They don’t need to wonder for too long, as they all see the Trinity Guard marching towards them in their black robes and golden masks hiding their real faces. They had abstained from joining the battle so far, as Lancelot had expected they would. These are soldiers from Rome, and their commanders are not stupid. They would not send their own to die pointlessly if the battle was lost. So they had used the Red Paladins as their vanguard, and sent  _ them  _ to die instead.

And it is true. Lancelot takes a look around to see more Fey and Northerners standing with red-robed bodies to their feet than the other way around. He would say it’s three to one now. But that doesn’t matter at all. The Trinity Guards are still too many for the few hundreds of them that remain, not to mention that they’re not wounded and exhausted. Abbott Wicklow’s victorious smirk says all that Lancelot doesn’t dare to admit to himself.

Sister Iris accompanies him, their horses’ hooves stepping on foe and ally alike, and stopping to a halt five yards away from the Fey queen and her three companions. The nun’s brown eyes have a feverish look to them as she contemplates her surroundings. It gives her a thrill seeing all those dead Fey, and when she turns her gaze to the survivors, Lancelot realizes that it’s their turn.

“Look around yourself, witch. There is no way you can win,” Sister Iris shouts from atop her horse. “Kneel to us, and we will let your people run back to whatever hole they’ve crawled out from. Refuse, and we will burn every single one of them before your eyes. I would suggest you think about this quickly, because my offer expires soon.”

The Trinity Guards had begun to circle them as Iris spoke, calm and impassive, the vanguard with their spears pointing forward, the others forming up behind them with all kinds of weapons. The archers would form the rear, always expecting orders to notch, draw, and loose.

They all look at Nimue now, waiting for her words of reply. She purses her lips, hatred etched in her face and making her hands shake while she fixes her gaze on Sister Iris as if willing her to burst right here and then. Perhaps she could, Lancelot thinks, but nothing happens. The queen’s magic is strong in her, but she still has a lot of things to learn and that’s one of those things.

But Lancelot  _ has  _ learned to control his power, and this is the time to show it.

“Queen Nimue,” he says. “Let me handle this.”

She turns her head to face Lancelot, eyes shining with the tears she refuses to shed. “No, I’m not risking you.”

“We will all die unless we do something right now.”

“I know that,” Nimue says, her voice lowered to a whisper. “They will never let my people live, even if I give myself up.”

“That is why you must let me do this,” Lancelot reasons. “I will only need to face one of them.”

“Iris,” Merlin says and Lancelot nods.

Gawain takes his hand, and Lancelot entwines their fingers. He doesn’t allow himself to say goodbye, and neither do the others.

Abbott Wicklow laughs when he sees Lancelot stepping forward. “You seem to have lost your sword, monster. If you expect to kill one of us--” When he says this, Lancelot hears the scrape of steel coming out of its scabbard. He sees the Paladin who had served as Abbott Wicklow’s bodyguard during the parley ready to carry out the order of fighting Lancelot should the latter attempt something against his person.

“I do,” Lancelot answers, then he points to Sister Iris. “Her.”

“Me?” she asks, her brow creasing in confusion.

“You have made a fine display of your power to us before, Sister,” he continues. “Allow me to do the same.”

The flames are a red-orange colour when they burst forth from Lancelot’s palm, but when they encircle the Paladin bodyguard’s body, bounding him arms and torso, they turn a bright green that reflects on everyone’s faces and cast great shadows on the grass and trees nearby. Lancelot commands the flames to bring the man closer, and they obey, throwing him to the ground and dragging him as if Lancelot had caught him in a loop of rope.

The man’s shrieks of pain are the only thing that can be heard, along with the crackling of the fire as it consumes his body, making the flesh slough off his big round face and arms to reveal bone underneath. Bones that soon turn to ash.

The fires creep back to Lancelot, disappear under the skin of his hand. The ground is scorched where the body had just burned, and the ashes of what the man used to be blow in the wind like leaves.

Lancelot looks up.

The horses had shied away at the sight of the flames, and he sees Abbott Wicklow sprawled on the ground, two Trinity Guards helping him to his feet. Sister Iris’ scarred face is pale as a ghost’s. 

“You and me, Sister,” Lancelot says in a calm tone. “Your power against mine. One of us can put an end to this.”

“Kill the monster, Iris!” Abbott Wicklow shouts, his face red with rage, being supported by the two Guards as one of his ankles is broken by the fall.

Iris looks her age when she dismounts, but she looks like just a small and scared girl when she takes her place several feet away from Lancelot to begin their duel. He hears her mutter every time she sends a bolt of lighting his way, praying to God for victory, for Lancelot’s death. None of them ever touch him, however, and she soon realizes this. That’s when she starts to pray in earnest, for help and for her life. Lancelot, for his part, finds no joy in the screams she lets out when the flames lick her skin through her black robes. Before long, there are patches of it gone, exposing the flesh underneath, red and pink and covered with boils. Lancelot gives her a respite, calling the flames back and walking towards her.

She falls to her knees, sobbing. Lancelot feels conflicted, having no wish to kill a foe when they’re down but knowing he has to. For the Fey who died, for the ones still alive, for the Northerners who had stayed. For his friends here and back in the city, for Gawain, and for himself.

Lancelot kneels in front of her, reaching back to take out the dagger hidden in his boot. “ _ Pater noster, qui es in cælis _ ,  _ sanctificetur nomen tuum.” _

“ _ Adveniat regnum tuum, _ ” Iris finishes. Then, looking into his eyes, she says: “I’m ready”.

After it’s done, Lancelot lays the body gently on the ground, wiping the blood of the dagger on his thigh. No one moves, no one seems to  _ breathe,  _ as if they’re expecting something to happen, some external force to dictate their fate.

Abbott Wicklow seems to be that external force, for his cry resonates clearly in the night. “KILL THEM!”

Lancelot’s heart stops for a second as he watches in horror as a Trinity Guard plunges the sharp steel point of his spear into the back of some unsuspecting Fey man. A Northern woman manages to kill two of them with her great battle-axe before she goes down as well, swarmed by a wave of black. The battle resumes then, a battle they cannot hope to win.

Has he doomed them all to hell?

Lancelot has no time to think of an answer for that question. He is only armed with a dagger, but it stops the parry of a greatsword somehow. He slams an elbow to the side of the Guard’s head, knocking him to the ground and sending the sword flying off his fingers, and drives the dagger into the exposed meat of the man’s throat.

Hot blood drips from Lancelot’s face as he grabs the sword, half-blind, and turns around. He tries to look for a flash of green armor amidst the chaos, but he cannot find Gawain, nor Queen Nimue, not even Merlin and his Sword of Power. He doesn’t know how he manages to cut down a Paladin coming, but he does. He wipes the blood off his eyes with the back of his hand, and the world comes back to color again. The Fey and Northerners are giving as good as they get, but for every Trinity Guard or Paladin they kill, five of their own die at their spears or swords or axes. Archers from both sides let loose their arrows, the Fey ones hidden up the trees and the enemy making the rearguard. Lancelot doesn’t know who the arrow that catches him in the shoulder belongs to, but what he knows is that he doesn’t feel it. He can only feel the dread running cold down his spine.

_ Green _ .

Green is coming from everywhere, sprouting from the ground. He hears the whispers of the Hidden clearly, as if they were coming from his own mind. But they are not. Everyone hears them, even the enemy. They don’t know what’s coming to them until it’s too late, until the vines circle their ankles and send them flying. Lancelot hears bones crack from the impact, screams, curses in different tongues. He sees Merlin on his knees, muttering spells. The same spells he had cast that day to form a bridge so they could cross to retrieve Nimue from behind the waterfall.

The whispers increase in volume and speed, but Lancelot cannot make out anything the Hidden are saying to him. Yet somehow he knows in his heart of hearts that there is a warning  _ somewhere  _ in those words. It makes Lancelot growl in frustration, twisting a Paladin’s head in his hands until he hears the bones crack and the body fall limp to the ground with a soft  _ thud.  _ Lancelot doesn’t need the Hidden to warn him of the massacre he has subjected the people he swore to protect to. He can see it plainly unfolding before his eyes.

The battle seems to even out, as the gods of the Fey and Merlin use nature’s magic to their advantage. Lancelot watches as some Red Paladins flee into the trees when they see the bodies of their fallen brothers and Trinity allies entangled in vines or impaled on them, their broken bones jutting out from red and black robes alike, and limbs twisted grotesquely. Only a few of the craven brothers are lucky to escape the arrows of the Fey archers hidden in the high branches of the trees, however.

Still, many and more have not been caught by the Hidden’s work yet. Fey and Northerners are still falling to the ground like leaves in autumn, their blood mixing with the mud beneath. Lancelot’s steps make a squelching sound as he approaches the thick of the fight; if he has caused this by his reckless idea of fighting Sister Iris on a duel and killing her, it is only fair Lancelot should die taking more foes down to hell with him.

He sees Nimue, who has apparently been given the Sword of Power as Merlin is otherwise busy casting the spells. The Sword has a brighter glow now more than ever, and Lancelot can feel its power thrum in the air even from here. It seems to have a life of its own, using the Fey queen as its wielder, but Lancelot notices the vines creeping on the side of Nimue’s face and her eyes shining like molten gold, and knows her power easily matches the Sword’s and Merlin’s, laying death to the enemies of her people from all sides.

_ Where is Gawain?  _ The thought makes Lancelot’s heart hammer against his ribcage and leaves a bad taste in his mouth, like the taste of ash.

Lancelot sees the fire gleaming off dark green armor, making Gawain look half-man half-nature and cast in sunlight. Steel crashes against steel, once, twice, but the third blow lands true. The Guard falls to his knees and on his face to the mud, clutching his chest. Gawain is breathless, and in the quarter of second he looks up to lock gazes with Lancelot, the latter sees the blade coming down from behind his lover.

“GAWAIN!”

The man turns his head around, which gives the Guard the opening he needs. A clean slash to Gawain’s face, a shout, and Lancelot’s feet are moving, flying. He would later claim he doesn’t know how he managed to reach there before the Guard could deliver the final blow, or how Lancelot managed to spill the man’s guts. What he does remember is holding Gawain’s face in his hands, blood seeping through his fingers.

“No, no, no…” Lancelot pleads, but to  _ whom  _ he has no idea. Gawain twists, grunting in pain, trying to raise a hand to the left side of his face where the sharp sword had kissed him moments ago. His remaining eye finds Lancelot kneeling by his side, and grabs his wrist instead.

“Lancelot…” he whispers.

“You’re alright, you’ll be alright,” Lancelot says when no further words come out of Gawain’s mouth. He’s supporting Gawain’s head up on one arm, so he has to unhand himself from the man’s grasp to reach the clasp of his cloak and undo it. He presses the cloth where it’s unstained to Gawain’s face to stop the bleeding, making shushing noises when he’s met by a pained whimper that makes Lancelot’s heart clench.

Lancelot knows they need to move before Gawain bleeds out, but there’s nowhere to go. It’s a miracle no foe has made a dash for them yet, completely exposed as they are, but they will and soon. He looks down to Gawain’s pale face and Lancelot knows he has no other choice.

He presses the cloth to Gawain’s eye with one hand, and puts the other on the grass below. He calls the flames, and they answer his plea. They look like bright green snakes slithering on the ground, turning east and west some seven yards away to form a ring of fire surrounding them, the flames growing taller by the second until the battle disappears beyond their veil.

Gawain’s hand finds Lancelot’s face, brushing away the stray tears that had fallen, and the dark ones too. “I love you… I wanted to tell you in case I--”

“You won’t die, you hear me?” Lancelot cuts off, desperate. “I won’t let that happen.”  _ Not again, not like this.  _ Gawain smiles sadly.

“I love you too,” Lancelot presses his forehead against his, weeping his sorrow out. The salt of his tears serving as kindling to the flames.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It is finally here, the last chapter of "better to last than to burn".
> 
> I'm so emotional rn.
> 
> Guys, you can still leave comments even if the fic is finished, I would love to know what y'all think about it!

The fire burns in the darkness.

He can feel the flames licking at his face, arms, and legs. He tries to get away from them but his body doesn’t respond to his commands. His mouth is sealed shut so he can’t scream for help to make it stop. He can do nothing but endure this torment, paralyzed, while he hears the sound of the fire crackling loud as warhorns.

He doesn’t know how much time passes before the shadow comes. The long fingers feel almost kind on him as it tilts his head up. He tries to speak when his lips part, but no sound comes out. The shadow’s touch is warm, yes, but the liquid that flows down his throat is warmer. He squirms, trying to spit it out. Can it see he’s  _ burning? _

He ends up swallowing the liquid somehow, and the relief it brings is enough to make him still. He feels himself being submerged into the ice, quenching the flames, the cold seeping into his bones. A coldness that leaves him numb and pliant as the shadow retreats, taking the warmth with it. He knows he should welcome this feeling, but it makes him queasy. The darkness seems even more encompassing as he shivers, feverish.

He falls into fitful sleep. He knows he sleeps because every time he comes back to himself, the flames are back for their slow dance around himself and he sees the shadow looming over him, pouring more liquid into his slack mouth. He tries to retain it, but when the shadow realizes this, it starts massaging his throat until he has no choice but to swallow.

From then on, the shadows come and go, blurring themselves together, their voices distant and muffled as if his head is underwater. He feels a constant throbbing on the side of his face that not even the liquid is able to placate. When the fog in his mind slowly dissipates, he realizes it’s medicine, the herbal taste sharp on his tongue, so he gives up fighting it. Out of the corner of his eye he sees the shadow again carefully cleaning his face with a wet rag. It morphs into a face with plump lips and freckles, fiery red hair framing it. His lips part, and he mumbles something foreign even to his own ears, and Pym opens her eyes wide like saucers before she shushes him, not unkindly.

“Don’t speak, Gawain,” she says, putting her hand on the uninjured side of his face. “You’re alright, your fever broke, but I need you not to speak.”

“Lan--” he whispers, ignoring her command.  _ Lancelot _ , he tries to say, but even the thought of saying a relatively short word like that one makes him feel incredibly exhausted.

Pym nods. “I’ll bring him to you,” she promises. The rag makes a soft ‘plop’ when Pym drops it into the water before making her way out of the… tent?

Gawain takes a look around, at least as far as he can see with one eye. He feels the scratchy material of the bandages covering half of his face, and wrapping around his head. But when he frowns at his surroundings, he has to grit his teeth at the onslaught of pain that comes all of a sudden. He closes his eye, waiting for it to subside, and opens it again a couple of minutes or hours later.

He has a pretty clear guess of  _ where  _ he is this time. What he had mistaken for dizziness is actually the motion of the waves, rocking the ship side by side like a mother cradling a babe in her arms. The wooden planks that make the ceiling certainly don’t belong to one of the Fey tents back at the city.  _ A ship’s cabin, then _ , he thinks.

He hears a door open, and footsteps echoing at the walls. When the dark lean figure comes around the cot to kneel by its side, Gawain smiles. It pulls at the skin around the scar that surely graces his face, covered by a thick layer of healing salve and the bandages. Yet he smiles, a small but relieved smile at seeing those ocean blue eyes, lighting up with concern but very much alive.

“Gawain.” He feels Lancelot’s hand entwine with his, his thumb rubbing circles on the skin of his palm. Gawain is sure that Lancelot can see the pain etched on what remains uncovered of his face. He’s trying to be comforting, and it works. Gawain could use the comfort for what he needs to do next.

“Lancelot,” he whispers, mouth barely opening an inch, but the name comes out complete this time. “Mirror.”

His exhaustion and the lack of sight in one eye are not strong enough to make him miss the look of uncertainty that Lancelot and Pym share, fleeting but heavy. Gawain suspects what he may encounter when he looks at his face in the mirror, and he probably would be right, but he will have to face it sooner or later, and he would rather it be sooner. He cannot let himself be deterred by whatever he knows it’s missing from doing his duty as a knight. He  _ has  _ to know, so he can move on.

Pym and Lancelot help him sit up in the cot, his back resting against the wooden wall behind. Pym gives him a new dose of medicine again, and it helps keep the pain at bay as she unwraps the bandages with extreme care. Lancelot, for his part, stands briefly to get the hand mirror from a nearby cupboard before returning to Gawain’s right side. The cloth gets stuck to the salve in some places so Pym has to pull slightly, making him wince and her apologize profusely. He tells her it’s alright and she gives him a small smile.

When the bandages are finally undone, Gawain blinks. And blinks again, and again, and again.

He swallows thickly, his heart beating furiously as he realizes he’s only blinking with  _ one  _ eye. He doesn’t dare search for Lancelot’s gaze, and holds out a hand for him to pass the mirror. Lancelot does, silently. 

Gawain has the urge to laugh, or cry, or scream, but he does none. He just stares at the left side of his face in utter disbelief, breathing coming out raggedly out of his nose. The slash of the man’s sword has left a deep scarlet scar starting a couple of inches below his hairline and running down his cheek and stopping almost to his bone jaw. But what brings up bile to his mouth is the sight of his left eye, or the place where it used to be. Gawain doesn’t doubt that Pym had done everything she could do to save it. But clearly it couldn’t have been saved. Only the pink skin that used to be concealed behind his eye globe remains, but Gawain can see that it’s healing well.

Still, his hand shakes as he sets the mirror down on his lap. He turns his right eye to Lancelot, whose gaze hadn’t left Gawain’s face once during the unveiling. He realizes Lancelot has seen it while Gawain was unconscious or under the effects of the pain medicine and seeing shadows in the dark. Probably a kindness, though. He couldn’t bear to see disgust in Lancelot’s features, even though Gawain knows the man has seen far worse things during his lifetime.

“Where are we?” he asks to distract himself from the queasy feeling in his stomach. 

“On one of the ships lent to us by Lady Gwen,” Lancelot answers. “On our way to the island.”

He nods, before staying still so Pym can re-apply the salve and bandage his wounds again. Lancelot tells him that two after the battles were over, and while they were getting ready to depart, Yeva the Moon Wing had told them that those Fey who had fled before the armies reached the city, had arrived safely to a place with blossoming fruit trees, calm seas, and black mountains beyond. A true haven for those weary of war and death. A place for the Fey to begin again.

Gawain learns that Squirrel, Morgana and Kaze, who had helped defend the city against the army of Cumber the Ice King, are alive and well. He cannot feel relieved though, thinking about all those who had lost their lives at the hands of such monsters as the Red Paladins and Trinity Guards. Nimue and Merlin had taken minor wounds during the fight, nothing too serious, and had frequently stopped by Gawain’s sickbed, to hear Lancelot tell it.

Pym leaves them alone under clear instructions to Lancelot that they may have a one sided conversation so Gawain wouldn’t pull his stitches, sounding surprisingly threatening, so they oblige her even for a little while. 

“We have been delayed by storms,” Lancelot says when Pym is out of the door, “but the Northerners say we should reach the island in a couple of days.”

Gawain nods once, his head resting back on the pillow. Lancelot continues, “I’m glad you’re alive, I--” his voice breaks with emotion, and Gawain takes his hand, squeezing slightly to let Lancelot know he should take his time. “I don’t know what I would’ve done if…”

Gawain understands the feeling. The feeling of loving someone so much that their loss would shatter you. He had experienced it on the battlefield, when he had lost sight of Lancelot and met him again once, twice, three times, never knowing if that one would be the last. He had been confident in Lancelot’s abilities as well as his own, but Gawain had seen far greater warriors than himself fall to an enemy’s weapon in battles before. It all comes down to luck in the end.

They’re both alive now, that’s the only thing that matters. He’s grateful for that, and looking forward to whatever the future may bring them when they arrive on the island. They all deserve a clean slate after all the suffering brought upon them.

Lancelot is careful when he leans down to place a chaste kiss on Gawain’s lips. The latter is startled for a second by the initiative, and his hands fly to rest on Lancelot’s shoulders. Keeping him there, above himself, eyes sparkling as the sunlit sea beyond these walls. “I love you,” Lancelot whispers, the words warming Gawain from head to toe. He doesn’t hear hesitation or uncertainty in them, only what they truly mean coming from the deepest part of Lancelot’s core.

“I love you too, Lancelot, so much.” Their lips meet again, and Gawain thinks that Pym would forgive him for breaking his promise of not saying another word if she could hear them.

* * *

The ashes scattered in the wind drift away from Lancelot’s gaze and into the calm blue seas beyond. “Born in the dawn, to pass in the twilight,” he whispers as he watches the sun set behind the horizon line, turning the sky golden. He sits on the sand, contemplating the scenery before him. He feels the content in his heart of a promise that was fulfilled. The Tusk boy that had died in Lancelot’s arms had wanted to be here, and now he will be.

The fading light of day brings darker thoughts to Lancelot’s mind, however. By orders of Queen Nimue, the prisoners they had taken from the battle would not be executed on the island’s soil. She would not let the place be tainted by the blood of those who had made her people bleed so for centuries. Lancelot had been a witness to the deaths of Abbott Wicklow, and several others who had thrown their weapons when they realized they couldn’t match the power of the Hidden and Lancelot’s Green Flames combined. The Northerners had made them walk blindfolded with their hands tied and stones in their pockets, one by one, down the plank and into the sea. Those lucky enough would drown before getting eaten by whatever animal prowled the blue waters in search of food.

The sight of land had been a sight for everyone’s sore eyes, after windless days and stormy nights that had threatened to make the ships disappear off the face of the sea. Lady Guinevere, no,  _ Queen  _ Guinevere and Arthur had separated ways from the Fey at shore before the latter sailed, to conquer the city of Gramaire from the hands of Uther Pendragon and rescue Arthur’s aunt, and a large number of Fey warriors (including Kaze, now a queen in her own right as voted by the Earth Folk) had accompanied them on their quest. But a great majority of Fey, those who had seen enough of death, had decided that they would be better off on a ship to the promised land.

So here they are. During the voyage, many names had been used to refer to the island they were yet to see with their own eyes, but  _ Avalon  _ had stood out among the others. And fruit trees it has, plenty of them, of all kinds and shapes and colours. Also rich sweetwater streams, lakes, waterfalls, green lush forests and even a desert as far as the scouts had dared to go. The dark mountains with snowy peaks beyond the tree line is what draws Lancelot’s eye the most, however. Home would have looked like that from a stranger’s eye before the Red Paladins had come to massacre the Ash Folk villages far away from here. Lancelot shakes his head, chasing that thought away before he lets it consume him. He is here now, alive, the last of his kind. He must honour his people in memory and words, and he must do it alone. 

So it comes as a surprise one day, perhaps a month after they arrived, when Gawain comes to where he is, sitting on a log, sharpening his sword with a whetstone. He hasn’t had a reason to use it, but old habits die hard and it couldn’t hurt to have his sword sharp just in case. He mirrors Gawain’s smile when he sees him, but frowns when the man says, “Come, you have to see this.”

He pulls the sword back into its scabbard strapped to his back, gives Goliath a pat on the head where the horse is grazing on the grass nearby, and follows his lover to where a congregation of Fey have reunited at the beach in a circle. They part to let Lancelot and Gawain pass, but the loathing that Lancelot had been witness to in some of their eyes before is long gone. As is the Weeping Monk, dead and buried and never to return.

When they are finally into the circle, he sees a dishevelled teenage girl and a young boy dressed in ragged furs drinking deep from waterskins. Pym is checking on them, but they don’t seem injured in any way. The girl clutches a spear with a fire-hardened tip in her hand, as if afraid they would take it away. When she hears footsteps coming, she drops the waterskin and throws an arm protectively around the boy’s shoulder, pressing him to her side.

She looks up and her eyes meet Lancelot’s. The dark marks of the Ash Folk are unmistakably there on her face, as well as the boy’s. Two sets of fearful brown eyes bore into his, perhaps not quite believing that Lancelot has the same marks running down his own.

He steps forward carefully, trying not to spook the pair by being too harsh. “What are your names?” he asks. When he gets no answer, he tries to ask the same question in a rusty Fey he hasn’t spoken in nearly all of his life but remembers. It seems to do the trick, as understanding lights up in the girl’s eyes.

“I am Lanna,” she answers in Fey language. “This is my brother, Addarant, but I call him Addie.”

Lancelot kneels in front of the boy. “Hello, Addie. My name is Lancelot.”

“Are you a knight?” he asks, voice small with his face pressed to his sister’s furs.

“I am,” he confirms. “People here call me Sir Lancelot the White Knight.”

Lanna lets go of her brother and looks at Lancelot. “We live in the mountains. We saw you and your people getting off those wooden things that float in the water, but we didn’t think it was safe to come down.”

“So why did you now?” Lancelot asks.

“We watched you all from afar, but you didn’t seem to have plans to burn our home like those red-cloaked monsters from the past," she replies, growing more confident. 

Lancelot knows that only a small number people (Merlin included) gathered here speak fluent Fey so they may catch a few words of what they’re saying, but not complete sentences. But the Ash Folk are an ancient people, and up in the mountains, traditions were upheld. Lanna spoke of “red-cloaked monsters”, meaning the Red Paladins that had participated in the Great Purge that had ended with the lives of thousands of Ash Folk, the  _ few  _ thousands they had been in the first place. The red-cloaked monsters that Lancelot had once served, much to his sorrow. He doesn't mention this, and never will. He isn't that man anymore.

“We are all Fey here,” Lancelot tells the siblings instead. “You have nothing to fear from us.”

Lanna breaches the steps between them, and takes his hands in hers. “We thank you for that, Sir Lancelot.”

“They are welcome to stay here,” a voice says from behind them. Queen Nimue walks to where they are with a smile on her face. Lancelot introduces her to the siblings and repeats the queen’s words in Fey. Lanna kneels on the sand before Nimue, telling her brother to do the same, but the queen holds out her hands to help them to their feet. “There is no need for that.” She commands two women to take the siblings back to her own hall, one of the few finished ones, and get them something to eat as well as clean clothes. 

Gawain and Lancelot are left alone as the Fey disperse. They had decided not to hide their love from anyone’s eyes, but it’s still a work in progress. However, Lancelot initiates the kisses more often than not, and Gawain doesn’t complain.

“I don’t know how to feel about all of this,” Lancelot says after a while, staring at the sea. “I thought I was the last of the Ash Folk, but now I find I’m not.”

“What do you feel?” Gawain asks.

Lancelot turns his gaze to him. Pym had done a good job with the stitches, as Gawain’s scar is still healing into a neat red line. His missing left eye is covered by a black leather patch. His right eye, though, is the deep green Lancelot has come to love and that is full of love for him in return.

“I am glad to know them,” he answers honestly.

“Then that should be enough. They trust you, Lancelot, and they will look at you for guidance. The boy is young, you surely have lots of things to teach him that his sister doesn’t know about.”

Lancelot knows Gawain is right. It’s not that he knows much himself about the Ash Folk that he hasn’t read on books or heard about from Merlin, not to mention how to master the Green Flames, but anything surely is welcome. Lancelot is the only one they know that might understand what they feel.

He takes Addie under his wing. The boy has taken quite well to a new life surrounded by people. Lanna had told Lancelot one night about their mother’s death in childbirth, and how her father had gone down the mountains in his grief, never to return. She had been half a child herself, but had taken care of her baby brother as best as she could with the tools she had. The group of Ash Folk who had escaped the Great Purge to seek refuge in Avalon had died out slowly, until the family were the only ones left.

Addie is a couple of years younger than Squirrel, but the latter has been teaching him how to shoot with bow and arrow. Lancelot judges that they could make a warrior out of Addie in time, but doesn’t want to rush it. The Fey have no need for warriors anymore, and he hopes it stays that way for many years to come. Lanna, however, doesn’t engage in conversation with almost anyone except Lancelot, Gawain, and a few select others. She is never seen without her spear in hand, either, honing it until the point is sharp and shiny. But she lets her guard down bit by bit as the weeks pass, and shows a surprisingly good knowledge of herbs that has Pym marveled. Lancelot has seen them going off into the forest together, baskets in hand. When he and Gawain tease Lanna about her growing  _ friendship  _ with Pym, she throws a faux-offended glare their way and stalks off somewhere else. Pym, for her part, turns a deep shade of pink.

That night at home, after they make love, Lancelot and Gawain lie side by side with their gazes up to the ceiling and in comfortable silence. Lancelot has his head on Gawain’s shoulder, while the man’s palm caresses his back. The scars there, the ones that serve as a reminder of what Lancelot has been through both at the hands of Father Carden and himself in his wish to please God, and the reminder that he could become something better. They don’t hurt anymore, in any way. Gawain traces and kisses them like they are something beautiful and holy, like  _ he  _ is, and Lancelot allows himself to believe it. He has nothing to lose and everything to gain.

A sudden loud laugh bursts out of his mouth before Lancelot can contain it. Gawain shushes him with a smile of his own, cocking his head to make sure Squirrel hasn’t woken in his room, but Lancelot knows best. The boy could sleep through a lightning storm at sea, he has confirmed it.

“What is so funny?” Gawain asks, kissing his forehead.

“Nothing,” Lancelot answers. “I’m just happy.”

“I am too.”

Lancelot knows, as he also knows that Gawain understands what he means. The worst is behind them now, in the past where all things are meant to stay rooted, all the pain and tragedy and loss. The happy present, and the happy ending is no less than they all deserve. 

Queen Nimue appoints Lancelot High Priest of the Ash Folk, an honour he receives solemnly, kneeling before her as she places a flame-shaped golden medallion around his neck. He inclines his head to her and walks to where Gawain and Squirrel are standing. All of his friends are there, his _family,_ because that's what they are. The Weeping Monk had gone into the flames, and that's where he perished. Lancelot came out of them, and found himself along the way. A place to call his own, a place where he _belongs,_ with the people he truly wants to be with. The road to salvation had always been there for him to walk on, he just had to take the first step.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone who has been following this fic since the first chapter and put up with my disorganized updating schedule, and to all of those who have commented in every chapter. I remember y'all by your usernames, so know you got a place in my heart.
> 
> Special thanks to [thetormentita](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thetormentita/pseuds/thetormentita) for being so supportive of my ideas for this fic and several others, and for making up the names for the Ash Folk siblings.
> 
> Come talk to me on [tumblr](https://maegelletargaryen.tumblr.com)


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